T he next night found Amaranthe hunkered in the shadows between two snowy hills overlooking the lake trail. Beyond the banks, elevated fire pits illuminated men sawing blocks of ice out of the frozen water. Their clinks and clanks carried to the shore. Since their harvest season was short, they would work through the night, but Amaranthe did not think she needed to worry about the men. As long as things didn’t get too noisy, they were too far out to notice an assassination on the trail.
Just as she started to rise, a trio of soldiers jogged around the bend. They wore black fatigues, boots, and heavy rucksacks with muskets and swords strapped to their backs.
She crouched low again, hugging the shadows.
Fort Urgot stood sentinel a couple miles north of the city, and it wasn’t uncommon to see soldiers training after dark during the short winter days. If they saw her, they would stop to ask her about the repeating crossbow strapped to her back. Carrying weapons wasn’t illegal, but using them outside of practice or a duel was, and this wasn’t a likely spot for either.
The soldiers jogged into a tunnel carved through a granite outcropping.
Once she was sure they were gone, Amaranthe skidded down the slope and over a mound of crusty snow left by the steam plows. Sand coated the icy trail, offering traction for her boots. Everyone from soldiers to enforcers to athletes training for the rings used the twenty-mile lake route, and the city maintained it year around.
She trotted into the tunnel, the crossbow bumping against her back. A gas lamp on the wall illuminated the interior. This was the only covered spot on the trail, and no ice obscured the surface. She knelt and ran a gloved finger across the packed red earth.
The bracelet the emperor had given her slipped from beneath her parka sleeve. He had suggested she wear it for luck. She could use luck, but she was wearing it-and had etched her name on the plaque-so whoever found her body could identify it.
“All right, girl,” she whispered to herself. “No thinking like that.”
She lifted her hand and examined the red dust on the finger of the glove. Yes, it was exactly like the smudge on Sicarius’s boot.
The thought sent a jolt of anxiety through her body. If he showed up tonight, she was supposed to kill him.
Not ‘supposed to,’ Amaranthe, youwill kill him.
She grimaced. She wasn’t a killer, not even close. She had never even fatally wounded a criminal in the line of duty. Yet, she was planning to intentionally shoot a crossbow quarrel into someone’s chest, in cold blood. Without a doubt, Sicarius deserved it, but…
“Why couldn’t he have been an ass to me last night?” Amaranthe muttered.
The man had been a thousand miles from friendly, but he hadn’t hurt her, threatened her, or even sniffed disdainfully at her. This would have been easier if he had.
“Maybe it’s not supposed to be easy,” she said, adjusting her crossbow and walking out of the tunnel on the other side. “Maybe my chance for promotion is meant to be a great test. Maybe Hollowcrest isn’t doing anything nefarious to the emperor, and I’m not a fool for doing his bidding. And maybe, I shouldn’t be talking to myself.”
Shaking her head, Amaranthe climbed off the trail, following one of dozens of narrow foot paths packed into the snow. If it was possible Sicarius was in town to assassinate the emperor, she would not be doing the world a disservice to kill him tonight. She had to believe that.
Her path ran parallel to the main trail, leading up a hill overlooking the tunnel. The elevated position offered a clear line to someone exiting.
Beyond the hill, apple trees rose, icicles draping skeletal branches, but she stopped before she reached them. Several snow-blanketed bushes dotted the top of the incline, offering good cover. Someone running out of the lit tunnel would already have trouble seeing into the dark, and the shrubbery would doubly hide her.
Amaranthe knelt down and carved a level shelf into the snow. After tugging off her gloves, she slid a slender metal case out of her pocket, from which she removed five poisoned crossbow quarrels. She laid them out, an inch apart, perfectly parallel. Five quarrels; five seconds; five chances.
There was little point in laying out enough for a second round. In the time reloading would take, Sicarius would either run back into the tunnel-she doubted it-or close the distance and tackle her. In truth, she suspected the first quarrel would be the only real chance she had.
With that grim thought, she loaded the five quarrels into the top of the magazine. She pulled the lever to draw back the string and lock the first into place. Then she wriggled into a prone firing position, her elbows supported by the ground and the crossbow in her hands. She sighted down the shaft to the trail and the tunnel exit. Her finger found the trigger. She was ready.
Now she just had to wait for him to come. If he did.
This was a hunch, and she knew it. That he had been here, she was sure of, but that he would return was more of a question. Even if he was a runner, there was no guarantee he came out every night. She might not get her chance to…
What, Amaranthe?
Do something she didn’t really want to do? Kill a man? Not honorably in battle, but while hiding behind a bush. Without allowing him the opportunity to speak to the magistrate, without giving him a chance to defend himself. Murder.
Cold seeped through her parka and into her stomach. Amaranthe dropped her forehead onto the stock of the crossbow. She couldn’t do this.
Someone grabbed her hair.
Her head was yanked back, her torso torn from the ground. An arm snaked around her neck.
Sicarius.
He jerked her head to the side. Amaranthe threw her arm up in an attempt to grab his, knowing it would be too late.
He paused.
Her neck twisted nearly to snapping, Amaranthe froze. She could not breathe. Tears of pain stabbed her eyes. Her instincts screamed for her to struggle, try to escape. But if she fought, he might finish the motion.
Then he dropped her.
Amaranthe took the fall on her forearms, head turning to keep from smashing her face into the ground. Pain sprang from her neck, lancing into her skull and down her spine.
A moment passed. Snow chilled her cheek. Slowly, very slowly, she rose to hands and knees and turned toward him.
First, she saw the black boots. Next came the pants of the same hue. As she sat up-no tilting her head back just now, thank you-she saw the black shirt, and finally the blond head.
“Who sent you?” Sicarius asked.
Amaranthe considered carefully before answering. If he simply meant to scare her into providing information, he could have started with a knife against her throat. No, he had almost broken her neck. He had intended to kill her but stopped mid-motion. Why? And would he continue where he had left off if she answered incorrectly?
“Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest.” Given the previous demonstration of how he could see through lies, the truth seemed a safer choice. Besides, she found herself reluctant to die to protect Hollowcrest’s anonymity.
“Why?”
“To kill you.”
“That I gathered. Why did he send you? What did you do to anger him?”
“I… Uhm, what?”
“It was a suicide mission. You must have suspected.”
Amaranthe started to shake her head, but stopped at the pain. “No, that doesn’t make sense. If Hollowcrest wanted me dead, he could have arranged it without ever bothering to meet me. He could have paid someone to assassinate me at work or at home.”
“Why pay someone when he knew I’d do it for free?”
“You didn’t though.” Amaranthe stood so she could look at his face. “Why not?”
He did not answer, but his gaze flickered downward for a moment, resting briefly on her wrist. She lifted it for
