The Assassin's Twisted Path Read online

  Book 3

  Chronicles of the Martlet

  The Assassin’s Twisted Path

  Written by

  Elizabeth Guizzetti

  Copyright © 2018 by Elizabeth Guizzetti

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the publisher, except brief excerpts for reviews and noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  For permission requests, email the publisher, with the subject line “Permissions” to [email protected]

  Edited by Joe Dacy

  Cover and Interior Illustrations by Elizabeth Guizzetti

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. (Also weird. I mean really this book is about a group of elves.)

  ISBN-13: 978-0999559840 (Paperback)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9995598-5-7 (Ebook)

  This book is for all the folks who read this book…

  Contents

  Seven Populated Realms protected by the Guild

  The Known Universe

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Acknowledgments

  About the author

  Also by Elizabeth Guizzetti

  Seven Populated Realms protected by the Guild

  Cannik (Can nik)

  Watery Realm of the vodnik

  Daouail (Da o wail)

  Realm of the Daosith

  Dynion ( Di nee on)

  Realm of the humans

  Fatidel (Fat i del)

  Realm of the Fates

  Fairhdel (Fair del)

  Realm of the Fairsinge

  Larcia (Lar see a)

  Realm of the dwarves

  Si Na (See Na)

  Realm of the telchine

  *Uttalassus (Ut ta lass us)

  Technically within the Realm of Si Na.

  Land of the gnomes

  Realms not within the Guild

  Risford (Rise Ford)

  Realm of the Giants

  Widae (Wed ae)

  Realm of Dragons

  Uncharted Realms

  Chapter 1

  Upon the Expanse

  The echoing call of the captain’s orders and stomping feet resounded over the newly-recognized Lord Roark, the Martlet of House Eyreid. He glanced out the InterRealm ship’s porthole. The crescent-shaped edge of Dynion loomed among the mists of the Expanse.

  Beside him, Lady Byronia, the Martlet of House Silba, sighed deeply, the pinch on her ivory brow proclaimed her sorrow as she stroked her tri-pointed ear —a terrible habit from childhood. She never spoke of her errands, but Roark could see they rested heavily upon her shoulders. Even with her grim manner, she had been an agreeable traveling companion; she had listened to stories and played hafal long in the night. A dear friend of his sister’s, she had done nothing to arouse suspicion, but he didn’t know if he could trust her. However, Roark was confident he could best her in sword-to-sword combat if necessary.

  Searching for words of comfort, he clasped his hand to her wrist and met her sapphire eyes; not even the Expanse could match their depths. She had peerless gifts in diplomacy, but by her darkening attitude, Roark was reasonably sure she had been sent to Dynion on an assassination mission.

  “Byrony,” he said, using her childhood name in their mother tongue. “We do what we do for peace.”

  “Gods, you’re young.”

  Byronia was only twenty-three summers to his eighteen, so he replied, “So are you.”

  “I’ll be in the vicinity of Denwort for a few days, perhaps longer. Do you think Mister Candlewick would allow me to visit? I wish to remain friends. So many will be lost,” she said.

  Will be lost? Under Roark’s tunic, the ruby-colored quartz pendant of wisdom shivered. “Why do you speak thus?”

  “I’ve foreseen the possibilities many times. The future overwhelms my courage. Uncle Corwin bade me open my mind; I wish I hadn’t taken that advice.”

  Roark pulled her from the porthole to the built-in table where the steward had set grapes, cheese, and olives. She allowed herself to be led and sat on the upholstered bench.

  Roark took care not to raise his voice. “Enough riddles. Will you kill me for practicing the forbidden arts?”

  Byronia’s eyes opened wider, but her voice was without emotion. “If I had your contract, I would’ve just killed you here and asked the sailors to toss your body into the Expanse.” She pressed her index finger into his brow. “Uncle told me your mind is open too; haven’t you looked to the future?”

  Roark didn’t want to remember the future he had seen. “Somewhat.”

  “I had hoped … you had seen too.” She fiddled with a loose grape, rolling it against the platter. “Not even Corwin has seen what I have. Alana only glimpsed the smallest truth of it.” Her eyes grew wild as they looked through him and into a destiny he couldn’t see. She lowered her voice. “Be careful whom you trust.”

  The InterRealm ship jostled as it landed onto Dynion’s northern sea. She met his eyes again. Her lips trembled. “When I move beyond the Seven Realms, you must keep the future.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Byronia spoke fast as if her spiraling words raced against the sailors as they docked in Port Denwort’s deep harbor. “The pre-Schism had no autonomy. Technology made decisions for you in the name of efficiency and comfort, while making you believe you had control. It was a false paradise. The Guild keeps us free, but this is no paradise either. So many suffer because we’re falling into entropy. This entropy precipitated famine, and the famine created the resurgence of slavery. Some of the old ways should not have re-risen. Why did we not learn from the Schism?

  “Worse, entropic species are weak and ripe for conquering. I’ll hold them back, but you must see to the future.”

  “You’re talking in circles.”

  “Please, there’s not much time.”

  He struggled to find a comforting response, yet not bind himself. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Byronia flinched. His attempt had failed. She was too gifted in diplomacy to be fooled by any non-answer.

  The steward called.

  Byronia pumped his hand up and down in farewell. “I hope that in time, you will be more of a Martlet than you are now.”

  He wanted to point out all the times she had been less of a Martlet, but before a single word escaped his lips, she exited the cabin. Her blonde braid sparkled in the sun before she went below to the stable deck.

  He waited until he was sure she was gone before he finished dressing, gathered his own gear and went below to the stable deck to collect Jaci.

  •

  Port Denwort in the Realm of Dynion

  Separated from his dour and apparently half-mad companion, Roark found a ride through the bustling, shop-lined streets of Port Denwort—a good enough reason to wear his fine clothes and house colors instead of drab traveling woolens. H
e relished watching humans of common blood incline their heads as he rode past on his majestic black mare. Though he did not prefer women, he adored the attention of two silk-clad human maidens of the merchant class who batted their eyes at his Fairsinge beauty. The girls seemed fragile things under their youthful, powdered, alabaster cheeks. Soon they would lose their loveliness. They would either die old or die young.

  As would he. How many years would it be until all that was left of Lord Roark, the 38th Martlet of House Eyreid, was the portrait on his House’s wall which would fade until some great-great nieces or nephews would hire a new artist to restore it? Perhaps that was what Byronia was rambling about. He shuddered; thinking of his own nightmares.

  His majestic Jaci would die before him. His beloved aunt Alana, his parents, sister, brothers, and all his friends—Eohan, Kian, Seweryn, Kajsa, Doriel, and even the sanity-challenged Byronia—would all die. Their souls would disappear from the Seven Realms, walk the Long Road to the Lowest Realm while their bodies putrefied. Roark had seen many dead. All of them had been just dead, except one.

  He had not forgotten the maze of stone houses and neat hedgerows to the small cottage on the hill. Chamomile buds trembled in the windowboxes concealing what lay inside the curtains. He dismounted and knocked on the heavy red door where the only dead who walked lived.

  The lich peeked out of the small window. His charcoal-lined obsidian eyes opened wide, and a gruesome smile exposed his yellowed teeth and blackened gums as he exclaimed, “Roark, my lad, it’s good to see you.”

  “Hello, Mister Candlewick. I wasn’t sure you’d remember me,” Roark said.

  “I could never forget the taste of your blood. How is your aunt? Still chasing after worthless slaves?” Edar opened his door and motioned for him to enter.

  Roark noted the new blue silken robes that hung on the lich’s withered frame and wondered what Edar traded for it: a potion, a secret, another slave bled of health? Inside, the reception room was clean, but Roark felt the oppressive darkness at the edges of the room. He forced a smile to his face. “Yes.”

  “Your aunt wastes her life on the unworthy. Please sit, my lad.”

  “I am Lord Roark now,” Roark said and sat upon the chair which Edar offered.

  “How nice for you,” Edar said.

  Roark declined to answer the lich’s needling, especially since the undead human still followed human niceties of the northern providence. The lich set bread studded with currants on the table and put on a pot over the stove for herbal tea—chamomile and lavender by its smell.

  “You look well,” Edar said. “And in the spring of youth. Are you injured?”

  “No.” Roark took a sip of tea, confident Edar wouldn’t poison him since he cared so deeply for the bodily fluids of his person.

  Edar’s face took on a look of concern. “Is Lady Alana injured?”

  “Not that I know.”

  “She foolishly refused the last potion I offered. A bit of blood from her pretty friend and we both might have been young for weeks!”

  Byronia’s frightened expression rose in his mind; he pushed it down. “As my aunt informed me, but I gave my blood willingly; Byronia did not.”

  “You’re taken with her?”

  “The lady is an inseparable friend to my sister and was to my late cousin and often kind to me; I’m glad to call her my friend.”

  “Friendship might become more.”

  “I enjoy the company of men, and as I am thirdborn, it hardly matters for the bloodline.” Roark returned to the true subject. “Your potion worked marvelously for healing and strength. Wounds closed quickly, but the visual side-effects did not last.”

  “Yes, and it depends upon the donor and the amount ingested. You were a fine donor. My potion made me appear alive for a hundred days. I even left the house several times.”

  “Alana sipped hers as needed. Her sword arm grew strong and reflexes quick. It was amazing.” Roark chose his next words carefully. “When we found Kian, he was quite ill. Alana gave him the rest of her potion.”

  “Wasted the potion, you mean.”

  “Alana didn’t consider it wasteful. Kian completely recovered. That is why, Mister Candlewick, I want you to teach me. Necromancy is an exhilarating science.”

  “Not one condoned by the Guild, Lordling.”

  There it was. He might have told Edar that House Master Corwin had secretly condoned his research, but the quartz shocked him with an uncomfortable energy as it warned of the danger. Don’t give Edar any ideas about Corwin or me. Corwin would see him dead.

  Edar is dead, Roark thought back.

  The quartz zapped him. I might be considered proof of betrayal since you liberated me from another necromancer.

  Roark spoke a deeper truth. “I don’t care about the Guild. It pays well, but the hypocrisies are many. If I were from a wealthier House, I wouldn’t soil my hands with them.”

  Edar pointed at the wooden broach of an eagle holding a smaller golden swift which fastened Roark’s cloak. “And that?”

  “My mother still rules; my aunt still wanders. It will be many years until much is expected of me.”

  “Odd for a young man to care about necromancy. You’re what? Seventeen?”

  “Eighteen summers,” Roark said.

  “Still so very young. Does Lady Alana know you are here?”

  Humans completed their apprenticeships in their early twenties, so he took care to mention it. “Alana released me from my apprenticeship, but yes, she does. I’ve seen death. I’ll be killing another in three weeks. I’ve a recurring vision of the Long Road where all the dead walk. Nightmares and idle thoughts haunt me.”

  “Why is that?” Edar asked.

  “I found happiness in Eohan and Kian’s companionship, but see the deceit in common elfkin beliefs.”

  “Such as?”

  “The priests say if I live by valor and goodness, I’ll be resurrected as a Noblewoman’s son, however, if two people as good-hearted as my friends might be born commoners and made slaves through no fault of their own, how can I believe what the priests say? How do I know what I’ll become if I step into the Waters of Resurrection? The mists of the Expanse are chaotic.”

  A shadow of wretchedness drifted onto Edar’s face. “You obviously expect to come and go at your convenience?”

  “The Guild’s convenience, but yes.”

  “What do I get from this arrangement?”

  “I expected you shall want some of my blood,” Roark said.

  Edar smiled. “For regular donations, I will teach you everything I know. Now don’t worry, I won’t bleed you too quickly. I’ve learned patience in my death.”

  “Good. I’ll need to water my horse and find her housing. Is there a nearer stable than the market square?”

  “Mayor Kleidmacher would be honored to stable a lordling’s horse, but he’ll ask your aunt for a favor sometime.” Edar gesture over his shoulder. “I keep a bed in my mother’s old room. It’s clean … and yes, Lordling, there’s a lock on the door.”

  Roark wasn’t sure how Alana might feel about that, but she’d traded her blood for a safehouse with Edar. His mother and father needn’t know or understand the risk. “I’ll return within the hour then. Need anything from the shops?”

  “The dairywife comes ‘round in the morning, but if it isn’t too much trouble … ” Edar scribbled a few items on a spare piece of parchment, the back of which held a list of herbs, and handed Roark a few coins. “Buy some sausages or chops if any are fresh. It’s been so long since I broke bread with another.”

  After a quick turn around the market and a flirtatious exchange with a human rentboy, Roark rode to the mayor’s stately stone house flanked by two stone towers, only three houses away from Edar’s little cottage. The grandfatherly Mayor Kleidmacher of Port Denwort, who was also the chief spokesman of the Silk Merchants Guild, greeted him warmly, was glad to see Roark in good health, and inquired about Alana.

  It was hard to mee
t the old man’s eyes when the oversized tapestry called to him. Brown paths of thread led to a central design of intertwined swirls of rich blue surrounding two black seraphim centered within an orb within an orb within an orb. Below the circle patterns, sparkling white and blue waterfall hid figures of every species within in the waves. The Lowest Realm.

  As Edar said he’d be, the mayor was thrilled to house a “newly promoted Elf Lord’s horse” and offered to house Roark who declined. After securing Jaci, Roark returned to Edar’s cottage. He set the fruit on the table and meat in the cold box on the north wall.

  “I’m here, Lord Roark,” the lich called.

  Roark followed the voice to the rear of the house where Edar arranged lavender and wolfsbane upon the mattress which lay on a welcoming, primitively carved oak bed. The room was dressed simply, but well for a family of the merchant’s class. Besides the oak bed, an oak chest lay on the east wall. A washing pot lay on a small table, and a chamber pot was in the corner and had a folding door to the outside for emptying. Edar placed a crisp linen sheet with a slight brown smudge over the herbs and mattress. “I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

  Roark touched the smudge. “Headwound?”

  “Fear not. It wasn’t Lady Alana’s blood. Just a bit left on her scalp from misadventure.”

  “Auntie’s entire life is a misadventure,” Roark muttered.

  Edar chuckled as he smoothed the sheets. “A maid comes in every second day to keep the place neat. She will also draw baths but is not to be touched. She’s a good servant.”

  Roark wasn’t sure if Edar meant she wasn’t to be harvested for blood or molested, but the vows of his station and moral code prohibited him from doing either. He said, “I understand.”

  Edar opened the window and smiled sadly. “My mother had a nice prospect of the garden. Like you, the aging of a beloved mentor spiked my interest in necromancy.”

  When Edar spoke of his mother, Roark could almost see the human he once was.

  “Do you need rest? I’ve much to show you,” Edar said.

  Roark set his saddlebags on the oak chest. “I can start immediately, if it pleases you, Mister Candlewick.”