The conspirators met on the shores of a black and ancient sea.
Aina raised her hood and dipped her face into the light of a low seabound moon, waves washing ashore beneath her sandals. She pulled her hood tight, and waited.
The other conspirator peeled his hood back. “The spider spins a silver strand of moonlight.”
The waves washed under Aina’s sandals again. “He spins a web of fate.”
The response still didn’t sound right coming from her mouth. Aina had first learned it at Wallerton’s Pub, where her father often took her as a child. Discussion of the problems facing the kingdom, somehow over the years discussion had turned into action, and action?
Into assassination.
“Chilly night,” Sir Eld said, pulling his hood taut. A glimpse of his face was all it would take to unravel their plans, and for the occasion he’d worn the makeup of an Initiate. Those wishing to join the Order wore makeup not of their choosing, sloppily applied like a drunk jester, to distinguish themselves from those who’d earned their place. The beach was empty this time of night, but if anyone saw, they wouldn’t see Sir Eld, the king’s First Knight who’d unseated seven riders in the last tourney. They’d see some sloppy Initiate, learning from an ordained priest.
“It’s warmer behind the walls,” Aina said, and growing up in the slums behind those walls, she knew to cherish the warm days. Defending against the heat was as simple as fanning yourself. The cold was a different matter. Against the cold there was no defense; it reached through layers, chapping your lips and cracking your skin. “The men are anxious.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” Sir Eld said. He turned his head towards the sea.
Aina looked at the sea too, source of life. The first King of the Tydarian dynasty had crawled from the endless waters carrying the eversharp Sword of Sighs, slaying the abominations nesting on the beach and establishing the great Kingdom of Madri. The outer walls of the kingdom overlooked the sea, the king’s chambers at the top of the Red Tower, where he could watch land and sea, their present and their past.
Their present was tyranny, their past lies.
Aina watched the waves wash ashore in slow, rhythmic motions. The walls of the kingdom didn’t extend to the edge of the cliff. There was plenty of room to walk the wall and gaze at the endless waters.
Or see the bodies.
A breeze billowed her hood and she lets its chill settle on her cheeks. The bodies. The Kingdom hanged criminals and left their corpses for the sea hawks, on the wall facing the sea. Aina’s mother had taken her there once.
And when Aina flinched away, her mother yanked on her ears until she looked. For years Aina’s father had spoken of reform. He’d requested an audience with the king and Aina asked if that was really her father. All the condemned men were hooded and Aina’s mother told her not to be stupid, that was her father and Aina asked if they could leave, she wanted to be gone before the sea hawks came, and staring at the hood she thought it kept her father’s face hidden but provided no protection. The sea hawks would eat her father’s eyes, his nose, digging into his cheeks and yanking his gums free from his mouth in tight pink strings. Blood? How long would you bleed after death?
A wave dried short of her sandals, retreating. She said, “No one sails on this sea.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“I’d restore sailing.” She looked at Sir Eld. “There’s more out there than here.”
“Yes,” Sir Eld whispered, and looked towards the sea once more.
The waves gained strength. They washed over Aina’s feet.
Then Sir Eld said the words Aina had wanted to hear for so long. Her father’s face under the hood, the hawks chewing through the cloth to consume his face. A king, tyranny, Aina didn’t smile when she heard the words. She understood it was time.
Sir Eld said, “The strand awaits.”
Aina put on her outfit. All maids were to wait in the parlor until called upon and Aina did not examine herself in the mirror. Since she was little, she’d cut her hair short and short hair, long hair, makeup or no makeup, she needed no mirror. She knew what she looked like.
It was Sir Eld who came for her. The First Knight stood the watch tonight. He approached her in the small swath of candlelight provided the maids and gave her hair a single stroke.
“Lovely,” he whispered. He raised his voice. “His Majesty shall receive you now.”
While Sir Eld turned to escort her, he brushed his hand along her garter belt, feeling the weight and confirming that everything was in place. He marched, and Aina did as he’d instructed, falling in behind him, meek, demure.
Ready.
The King’s chambers were as poorly lit as the parlor. The king laid in a grand bed, curtains pulled aside. Fine silk robes, the king looked the same age as Aina’s father when he was executed. He kept a thin gray mustache, his belly pushing past his robes, disease of the well-fed, of the privileged.
Sir Eld bowed. “Your Majesty, I present to you Jade.”
Aina bowed. “Your Majesty.”
She feared she’d said it too forcefully–Sir Eld had stressed that the king liked timid women, innocent girls he could corrupt–but the king paid it no mind. He said nothing to her, and nothing to Sir Eld either, who bowed and marched out of the room, closing the doors behind him.
The king waved her on. “Closer.”
Aina took a couple steps, head bowed.
“Closer.”
Aina came closer, barely lifting her feet. She repeated this, the king calling her, Aina shuffling a few paces, head bowed, and at his request she sat on the edge of the bed.
The king smiled. Two bedside candles burned on dwindling shafts of wax, revealing not a king whose ancestors were gods but an old man, his face scarred by a childhood case of the pox. Crumbs in his mustache, his breath stank of ale.
“Where are you from?” the king asked.
Sir Eld had given her no guidance on this. The king will paw at you. Let him, and when he’s too distracted to notice, plunge your knife into his heart. The next steps she’d have to do quickly: Pull the sconce by the third bookcase. Take the passage down. A boat awaits.
“The great Kingdom of Madri, Your Majesty,” Aina said, bowing her head.
The king laughed. Then he coughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Of that I have no doubt. Where in the Kingdom, my dear?”
“The slums.”
She forgot to bow her head, forgot her demure voice, but the king just nodded.
“Slum girls find a way out. Is this your first time servicing nobility?”
“My first time servicing the King.” Aina remembered her role and bowed her head.
“They trained you well.” The king coughed again, not wiping his mouth this time. “Would you do your king a favor?”
And here it is. Don’t flinch. She braced herself for the King’s touch. A little fondling, and she’d end it. Don’t flinch. Do not flinch.
“Anything, Your Majesty.”
Aina bowed her head, and raising it she saw the king hadn’t moved.
“Sing me a song.”
Aina blinked. “A song?”
“Of your choosing. You must know some good ones, all slum girls do.”
Aina glanced at the door.
“What troubles you?” the king asked.
“Nothing.” She dipped her head. “Nothing, Your Majesty.”
The king grunted.
Aina sang. She recited an old pub favorite, about losing your shoes and your money on a rainy day. The king’s eyes fluttered, they lowered, and Aina lowered her voice with his eyes, trailing off. She stopped singing, watching the rise and fall of the king’s belly.
Burning in her gut. She was trembling. To dream of this for so long, to enact it, she slipped a hand under her garter belt.
Whispering, the king asked, “Who taught you that?”
“My father,” Aina said, and tears surfaced. They stained her cheeks as she found a good grip on the blade.
“Must’ve been a good man,” the king said on a voice of sweet dreams.
“A good man.” She squeezed the handle. The burning in her gut rose, she trembled, and she thought of her father, face behind the hood, she saw him singing in a pub with his friends, working men who dreamed of a better life and received death from their king in pursuit of their dreams. Father sang to her.
Sea hawks ripped his face apart.
Aina freed the blade.
“Your voice–” the king said, and Aina raised the blade and carved his throat. A gust of blood shot up towards the canopy and soaked them, the blood of royalty. Descended from the gods, the king still bled like any other man and Aina finished the job and the King’s eyes flew open, wide, panicked, a feast for the hawks. He gurgled, his blood bubbling in his throat. The king choked. He reached for her and she smacked his hand away.
Aina watched the king die. When the light in his eyes faded and only that of the candles remained, Aina rose, clutching the blade. She staggered towards the third bookcase as the chamber doors opened and she gripped the empty sconce with her free hand. She pulled.
The sconce didn’t budge.
A gloved hand fell on her shoulder.
“It’s done,” Sir Eld said.
Aina had no words. She pointed at the sconce with the same hand that held the blade.
“The Kingdom will demand justice,” Sir Eld said. “Forgive me.”
As understanding settled on Aina, she moaned. She shook her head.
Sir Eld gave her a grim smile. “You did well,” he said. He patted her shoulder. “I’ll ensure you don’t suffer.”
“The . . . ” She choked up.
Sir Eld held her hands in his and placed them both over the blade. He turned her hands and the blade into position, soaked in the blood of the King, and when it entered her she tried to scream, but coughed instead.
Sir Eld shoved her hands, forcing the blade all the way in.
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
Sir Eld let go. Aina staggered back, reaching for something to hold, and she fell.
Aina felt for the blade handle, blood bubbling from her stomach. Her sight greyed, her breaths grew short. Sir Eld stood over her. She mouthed a word at him, Why?
Sir Eld didn’t answer. When the light in Aina’s eyes faded, Sir Eld checked his hands. Blood on his gloves, from the struggle to get the knife from her before she used it on herself to avoid justice.
He strode past the bed. The king was dead, many years too late. His eight-year-old son would assume the throne, and Sir Eld would help the boy mourn. The entire Kingdom would mourn.
Then Sir Eld would lead.
The boy king would sit the throne, but it would be Sir Eld who made every decision. The boy would lead, for a time.
And the day would come when the boy king would be of no use.
Sir Eld sniffed. “Descended from the gods?” He chuckled, and hurried off, to alert the tower guards that their king was dead.
Travis Lee currently resides in San Diego. Previous publications include ‘The Bar Visitor’ in ‘Night Terrors Vol. 26: A Short Horror Stories Anthology’ and ‘Stir Rattle Hiss’ in the fall 2023 issue of Straylight.