The Assassin’s Bride: A Fantasy Romance Tale (Artisan Magic Book 1)

Thea had never been athletic. It did not take long to conclude her accidental association with Gil would change that. From how easily he loped across the hills and hollows that formed the countryside north of the capital, she suspected he could run for days. She, on the other hand, had tripped seventeen times, and was uncertain whether or not the time she’d stumbled as he lifted her from the hole of a rabbit’s warren counted as an eighteenth. It did not, she decided on the spot. She wouldn’t have stumbled if he hadn’t caught her ankle and held it for inspection.

That sort of gentleness had been entirely unwelcome. He was dangerous, a savage brute who killed without remorse, who had ruined her life and was responsible for her needing to run in the first place. That he would look after her well-being now was the least that he owed her, but he could do that without daring to touch her without permission. They would have to establish ground rules for the rest of their travels. When they stopped to rest, that was. It took all her breath just to make it up the next hill.

He paused at the top and turned back to face her, poised to offer a hand. He’d done that far too many times, and with genuine concern on his face.

She averted her eyes before he could extend his hand, rejecting help before he gave it. “Surely we’ve lost them by now,” she panted, unsure what to say. Night had long since fallen. By blessing or perhaps design, a hunter’s moon hung in the sky, providing more than enough light by which to flee. But not, she thought ruefully, enough to avoid the burrows and holes animals left in the hillsides. It was a miracle her ankle hadn’t been twisted. If it had, Gil might have tried to carry her.

“Unlikely.” His eyes swept from her to the southern horizon, where Samara and its lights remained only a faint glow against the sky. Before long, that too would pass beyond sight. “You must consider why they chase us. They will not halt their pursuit.”

“We shouldn’t have taken the ferry, then. They were waiting for us.”

“As they would have been at any other crossing point. My original plan involved swimming across, at the narrow point just before the lake.”

Thea braced her hands against her hips and tried to catch her breath. She’d come to regret her choice of attire, but at least it would be short-lived. The sooner she had a chance to sit and sew, the better. “When will we stop?”

“Soon. We can run forever and die of exhaustion, or we can count on our headway to provide time to work.” Gil started down the hill without indication he expected her to come along. She supposed by now, the assumption she would follow was sound.

“Surely the dogs will pursue us anywhere. They saw us cross the river, the water was no aid.”

He nodded. “Indeed they will. Which is why we must take advantage of the distance we’ve gained. Approximately two miles from here, there’s a sugar shack where we can stop. I suspect you are eager for rest?”

“An astute observation,” she grumbled.

“I am given to those.” The smile he sent over his shoulder was disarming.

Thea refused to be charmed. “An assassin shouldn’t try to be so personable.”

His brows arched, the expression less distinct than his teeth had been in the moonlight. “Do you know many?”

“Do I seem like the sort of person who would want to associate with killers?”

“You seem like the sort of person who wouldn’t want to associate with anyone at all. I’ve met scholars with fewer books on their shelves.”

She didn’t know whether to be offended or disturbed. “How would you know anything about my books?”

“I was on the stairs while you packed.”

If that was true, then he’d also been there while she’d changed clothing. Heat blossomed in her cheeks and she was grateful for the cover of night.

Gil returned to the original subject unprompted, sparing her the embarrassment of discovering whether or not he’d stayed to watch her dress. “For the record, a cordial killer is often more effective than one who makes himself standoffish. Charm engenders trust, and trust gives rise to vulnerability. There’s a reason kings keep few friends.”

“While assassins have many?” She was short of breath again, trying to keep up with him. Her words were ragged.

“Assassins have none.” He spread his hands as if in lament. “But they’re the only ones who know it. Look. Our destination is there, at the edge of that grove.”

Thea could barely make out the shape of the sugar shack against the dark trunks of the trees, its roof shaded by leaves that lacked vibrance in the moonlight. Instead of replying, she hefted her sewing basket from one hand to the other and walked with a more deliberate stride.

By the time they reached the shack and Gil undid the lock, she was ready to collapse. He ushered her inside and lingered at the door for a time, watching the countryside for any sign their pursuers might be closer than anticipated. The night was still, save the song of crickets, and he shut the door when he was satisfied. Darkness swallowed them, but the sound of his footsteps made it easy to track him across the shack. “Give me a moment. I’ll ensure the windows are covered, then I’ll start a fire.”

A fire sounded pleasant, but she still shook her head as she sank to the floor, despite knowing he wouldn’t see. “They’ll see the smoke. No one should be in here this time of year. It’ll be suspicious.”

“If you believe yourself capable of working in the dark, I won’t dissuade you.” He shifted something and what little moonlight had reached the inside of the shack disappeared.

Whoever owned the place, they’d already boarded over most of the windows, from what Thea could tell. Preparation for winter. More proof their presence would be obvious and out of place. “A lantern would suffice.”

Gil continued without acknowledging her again, but when a light flared to life, it was trapped within the glass panes of a square lantern. He sat the lantern on the floor beside her. “Begin sewing.”

“Now?” She was so weary she could hardly lift her arms. How could she so much as thread a needle at a time like this?

“We both have work to do. The sooner we both start, the sooner we can continue our journey in safety.” He sat cross legged on the floor and moved his bag before him.

The bag with the head. Thea’s stomach lurched.

Her expression must have changed, for Gil paused with the satchel’s top only partway open. “If you are squeamish, I will turn so you have the ability to look away. But my work requires light as much as yours, and this cannot be put off, or the royal dogs will follow us to the ends of the earth.”

“Turn, then.” She put her chin down and opened her own things. Not the sewing basket, as he’d ordered, but her personal belongings. At the very top, the cake from Elia waited in its wrappings. A consolation indeed. Thea pulled it out, her stomach more hollow than ever before. She would need water, too, but something to eat was a start.

Gil’s brow furrowed at the sight of the package, but he didn’t look for long. As he’d said, he turned before he removed the head from his satchel. The stench of hours-old blood hit her like a slap in the face and made her reconsider her meal.

“I know,” he remarked as he positioned the dark leather bag to hide whatever it was he meant to do. “But try to eat. You’ll need to keep up your strength.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Thea tugged at the strings that held the paper closed, though she was unsure she’d be able to eat now.

“Your face said plenty.”

The cake inside the paper was dense and smelled heavenly. She scooted farther away and lifted it to her nose, hoping it would remain enticing if she focused on it. “What do you mean to do with that, anyway?”

“Preserve it. I won’t disturb you with details, lest I harm your appetite. But he must remain recognizable, and we have a long way to go.” He removed something else from his satchel. Tools, she assumed. Perhaps herbs or oils. As if to confirm her suspicion, a cork popped and a spicy aroma touched the air. That addressed one problem, at least. If she turned away, maybe she could pretend he was doing something innocent. Wood carving, or something equally mundane.

She turned to face the wall as she ate. “I’d think recognizability would hinder our travels, the first time someone catches a glimpse of what you’re carrying. Perhaps you could make him wear that atrocious mask and protect his identity.”

Gil snorted in amusement. “I’ll consider it.”

For a time, she chewed in silence and stared at the walls. The shack was more solid than she’d first assumed, every gap between boards filled. Whoever had prepared it for winter, they’d done a good job. Or maybe it had been constructed well to begin with. Kentorian craftsmen excelled in a number of ways; those without magic were forced to perform at a level few others could. From what she understood, other countries were not as accepting of artisan magics. Her abilities would not be appreciated everywhere. A seamstress could still make a good living without being a Threadmancer, but she would never likely know comfort again on the level she once had.

Some tool he wielded made an unpleasant sound.

She decided to cover it with conversation. “Do you know if mages are welcome in Ranor?”

“Is that where you intend to go?”

“Perhaps. If I have to settle somewhere new, I want it to be where I can earn the most from my work.” Selfish, she knew, but after all this, wasn’t she allowed to be a little selfish? If the world was open to her, she’d settle in the best place.

He made a thoughtful sound. “They face tighter regulations than mages here. Most artisan mages who ply their craft in Ranor do so in service to the crown.”

“Does Ranor change rulers as often as Kentoria?”

“No one changes rulers as often as Kentoria. When Ranor crowns a new ruler, it’s with much deliberation and ceremony, and it’s never anyone so young as the Kentorian kings.”

Hungry as she was, Thea’s appetite evaporated after only a quarter of the cake. It was too rich, she told herself. Not proper to eat on an empty stomach, better saved for a treat after a savory meal. She folded the paper closed. “And now Kentoria won’t have a king at all.”

“I doubt that. There’s no shortage of nobles to set upon a throne. The more likely scenario is a great deal of infighting while they try to determine who is best equipped to take over, now that the throne is vacant. Though I suppose it’s always possible you might end up with a queen.” His nonchalance shouldn’t have been surprising, but Thea found herself glaring over her shoulder all the same.

“Do you truly care so little for the turmoil you’ve caused? For the trouble you’ve caused my country?”

“On the contrary, I’ve done what I’ve done because of how it will aid Kentoria.”

Thea snorted. “How is killing our leader supposed to help us?”

“I don’t expect you to understand.” He paused in the midst of whatever it was he was doing, a pensive sort of look claiming his face. “Though I… I admit that I wonder what sort of person he was. If perhaps he thought he was helping the kingdom, too.”

She crossed her arms and lowered her eyes to her sewing basket. Tired as she was, she knew she needed to begin. There wouldn’t be many quiet moments in which she could sit and sew. She could hardly afford to waste one now. “He was awful.”

Gil looked up. “What makes you say this?”

“He was a Rothalan king. The first was all right, but the rest of them weren’t, and everyone said Gaius was the worst. Heartless, merciless, and cruel. A hard and hateful man who cared nothing for his people.” Yet he hadn’t been the one to take her brother’s head. She tried not to let the opinions of others color her own perceptions, but no one in Samara had liked Gaius. It seemed unlikely he might have defied her expectations.

“Hm.” He regarded his work with a deep frown. “Then perhaps I’ve done Kentoria a greater favor than I thought.”

“Kentoria, maybe, but you certainly haven’t helped me.” Thea dragged a piece of cloth from her basket, evaluated the weight, then chose another. It would do.

“Oh, yes,” he intoned dramatically. “Your taxes. I suppose an argument could be made that I did help you. It’s not as if you’ll have to worry about paying them now.”

Instead of arguing, she scowled and set to work. She knew her own measurements by heart and could mark a perfect seam allowance freehand, though she now regretted that she hadn’t packed any yardsticks by which she might draw a straight line. A few sweeps of her hand smoothed wrinkles from the folded fabric on the ground, then she found her measuring tape. A few swipes of the chalk blocked out the length of her legs and the width of her hips. She’d want something comfortable, something that gave her plenty of room to flex. Yet she’d want a close ankle, something that would fit inside her boots to deter pests without bunching or chafing. She added extra space for ease and drew a waistband that wouldn’t restrict or rub if she had to bend or sit in awkward positions.

“Add more pockets,” Gil said. “They’re always useful.”

“I put pockets in all my garments. I wouldn’t dare short myself.” She’d already drawn the opening and marked pieces for the lining.

He paused then, studying the shapes she’d drawn. “What are you making?”

“Trousers. For myself,” she added firmly before he could ask.

“Yourself? It’s far more urgent that you make something for me.”

“And I’ll make you something soon enough, but I’ll travel much faster if I don’t keep tripping over this Light-blasted skirt.” She double-checked each measurement before she drew her shears from the basket and cut out her fabric. Front, back, pockets, and waistband. They would be simple and utilitarian, but they would do.

Gil made no argument, so she pulled out her thread and the packet of needles. Now was when the hard part began.

She passed the thread through the needle and wrapped the end around her forefinger and thumb. Bind, she told it as she rolled the thread between her fingers and tightened the knot. Her fingertips tingled with the first blush of power. She gathered the first piece in her hands and began the tidy row of stitches that would fuse the pocket to its opening.

Pockets deeper than they seem, she thought. She willed the concept to swell in her chest, to travel down her arm and sink into the needle. It twisted itself into the fabric alongside the thread as the tingle in her skin became a pins-and-needles prickle. Fitting for a Threadmancer, she’d always thought; whether it felt the same for other artisans, she could not know.

Stitch by stitch, she secured the pockets and began the seam down the outer leg, pausing now and then to shake her hands. After a time, she grew aware of Gil’s eyes on her as she worked.

“Do you feel it?” she asked. She’d wondered, considering how easily he’d pegged her as a Threadmancer. Artisan mages didn’t often sense one another, but an artificer might, and she supposed that could be a useful skill for an assassin to bear.

“No,” he said. “And I wouldn’t know what you were doing, save for such concentration on your face. I cannot say I’ve seen such focus before.”

She allowed herself a smirk. This was nothing yet. Embroidered magic always took the most out of her. Whenever she embroidered, it was up to Elia to watch the shop, for nothing could steal her attention then.

“Long seams,” she said as she ran a finger down the unfinished side. “For endurance. Stamina. A long and stable stride.” She didn’t often voice the intentions she stitched in, focused instead on pressing them into the fabric with thought and will. But he’d paused whatever work occupied him and watched with fascination. She couldn’t help but explain.

So she repeated the same intention for the other pant leg as she pushed the magic down the needle and drew it tight with thread. Whenever she fell silent, traveling down the length of those seams, he returned his attention to preservation of the severed head. But every time she spoke, he looked her way again.

“A curve, to capture change,” she said as she stitched shut the rounded seam up the back. “To bend my appearance, ever so slightly.” A forbidden talent, but no harder to embed in the seams than any other enchantment. She hesitated before moving on to the front, where buttons would fasten the trousers and extra magic could be woven into the buttonholes. “A closure. For security, and secrecy.”

Gil fought back a snicker.

Everyone always snickered at that. Thea rolled her eyes. “Oh, would you prefer your pants not hold secrets?”

That earned a full laugh. “Forgive me. Continue.”

She settled back to work, but her fingers had already begun to ache. “I won’t be able to do much more tonight. The needle is harder to push when there’s magic sitting in it.”

“Have you not imbued them enough already? I can hardly imagine something as mundane as pants containing magic at all.”

“Every inch of thread necessary is an inch of power that can be put in. I should put increased durability around the knees and rear pockets to make them less likely to tear. And the waistband is one long curve. Another opportunity to work in some illusions.” Not that she’d decided what the illusion should be. To make her appear a little taller or shorter, she supposed. Illusion magic worked best when it was applied to a garment worn on the part of the body one wished to change. Aside from altering her height, what could be done with her legs?

Gil wiped his hands clean. The sharp scent of blood had returned, though they’d been sitting in its presence so long that she only just detected it beneath the fragrance of herbed oils. “You need to finish them tonight. Tomorrow, you’re going to begin work on mine.”

“I can’t possibly work that fast,” she protested.

“Then you’ll have to sacrifice some of the magic you want and settle for ordinary trousers. Can’t you imbue them with more power later?”

If she could get her hands on things for embroidery, it was possible. Thea pursed her lips and let her hand hover, needle poised between her fingers. “Will we pass markets on the way to Ranor?”

He paused with his hands full of peculiar blades and picks whose purposes she didn’t dare imagine. “What makes you think we’re going to Ranor?”

She shrugged. “We’ve been going north, haven’t we?”

Gil started to answer, then paused with his head canted to one side. Listening. Was something out there in the night? The guards pursuing them, perhaps? If they were, she couldn’t hear them.

Abruptly, he jammed his tools into his bag and stuffed the king’s head in after them. “We must go.”

“What? Now?” Despite the questions that leaped from her tongue, she was quick to tuck her needle into her project and fold her sewing into the basket.

“There’s a small tributary river not far from here. We’ll finish there and the water will help hide our presence. Come.” He offered a hand to help her rise. Though he’d wiped them well, his hands were still stained.

Thea’s lip curled and she stood on her own.

“Suit yourself.” He scanned the shack once, then extinguished the lantern. For a moment, she considered asking if they could bring it. Then she heard what must have caught his ear. The distant howl of hounds on their trail, all but lost in the cold winds of night.

“To the ends of the earth,” she sighed.

Gil chuckled as he pulled open the door. “Let’s hope we don’t have to run that far.”

“Just to Ranor, then.”

“Indeed.” He shut the shack as they stepped into the night, but there was no undoing the shattered lock. “To Ranor.”