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This was not how the day was supposed to go.
When she pried her eyes open to see if she could run—from him, this time, instead of the guards—she saw him fold shut the flap of a leather satchel, sealing the head away from view. He wiped his hand against his hip and looked back the way they'd come. “We must go.”
“We?” she repeated, incredulous.
The sounds of the city beyond their cranny grew louder. The baying of hounds rose above the thunder of boots and armor. Before she could protest again, he snagged her wrist and led her farther down the winding alleyways. She thought of fighting back, but the cries of the dogs put a lump of fear in her throat and the sight of the leather satchel that bumped at his hip made her knees feel like water. She wobbled on her feet, but his grip never faltered.
What little strength she had collected in her voice and escaped as a single protest. “Let me go.”
Her captor said nothing. Nor did his hold on her abate. Step by step, he led her deeper into parts of the city she had never seen. In the dark, narrow alleys of Samara, the cool autumn air turned sour with the stench of rotting garbage and damp, decaying leaves. The hounds' keening grew distant and faded.
They emerged between shacks near the lake. The streets here were little more than mud, but they were empty. Soft breezes whispered through the leaves and stirred the water to lap against the shore, both sounds something that should have been peaceful. Instead, they put Thea on edge. Whoever lived on the city's outskirts, they were gone for the day, earning their keep elsewhere.
There was no one nearby to hear if she cried for help.
A small lean-to against the back of a rough house was where they stopped, though only for a moment. The assassin's hand closed on the lock and she didn't see what he did, but a snap split the peace and the lock fell to the ground. He jerked open the door and thrust her inside.
Panic surged in her chest as she stumbled into a pile of firewood and he slammed the door shut behind them.
“Don't kill me!” she gasped, her hands up, palms out, as if she held any power to stop him. She hadn't even been able to prevent him from dragging her through the city while fear held her tongue.
He snorted. “I've told you already, your blood will not be on my hands.” The lean-to was poorly constructed, with wide gaps between the vertical boards that comprised the walls, providing enough light to see him clearly. He swept the uncomfortably familiar executioner's mask from his face and cast it to the floor.
Thea had expected many things from the assassin, but that he might be handsome wasn't one of them. The notion that killers ought to be as frightful on the outside as they were on the inside sprang to mind, but she quickly stuffed it down. Her brother's killers had been handsome, too. It hadn't changed his wrongful death.
He left the mask on a stack of firewood and raked his fingers through his dirty blond hair. When he looked at her again, he exhaled hard. “You weren't supposed to be there. No one was supposed to be there.”
“I had an audience,” Thea protested.
His brows rose. “Then you were late, because audience hours were over.”
“I was not late!” She clenched her hands to fists and stomped one foot, only realizing after she'd done it that showing belligerence to a man with a severed head tied to his belt might be unwise. Her throat thickened and she gulped. “My letter said the king would see me at five.”
“It did not say five.”
Her jaw tightened until it ached. “Well I can't prove you wrong now, my letter is gone.” And so were her chances of having her problem solved. The gravity of everything that had just transpired bore down on her shoulders until she thought she might collapse.
Her letter was gone, and so was the king. The last of the Rothalan line had been murdered right in front of her. The kingdom would be in turmoil before the sun set. And here she was, standing in a wood shed with the man who had done it, arguing over whether or not she'd read her letter wrong.
Thea made herself wet her lips with her tongue. When she spoke again, her voice shook. “I won't tell anyone I've seen you. Please, spare me. I'll make no trouble.”
“No.” The single word was spoken without hesitation, firm as the ground beneath her feet.
Her heart beat faster. “But you said—”
“That I won't kill you, yes. That's fun, isn't it.” The sarcastic edge in his voice took her off-guard. Again, he slid his fingers through his hair. Why was he so troubled? He had no right.
“Then why did you bring me here?”
The look he gave her made her feel the answer should have been obvious. “You were the last person to enter the throne room. The only person the guards knew was present. You stood in the throne room with murdered guards at your feet. What do you suppose would be done to you, had I left you behind?”
Her hand rose to her throat before she could stop it.
“Precisely.” He turned as if to pace, but there was nowhere for him to go. The twitch of a muscle in his cheek betrayed his frustration. “Had I left you there, you would be executed by morning. Had I left you there, knowing I bore the power to spare you, I would be as guilty of your death as I am of his.” His hand hovered above the satchel, then went for the mask. He contemplated it for a moment, then gritted his teeth and left it where it was.
Thea gripped her skirt in both hands. “Then you've spared me and done your part. Leave me here. I'll escape on my own, go back to my shop—”
“To where the guards will be looking for you?” He arched a brow. “You showed a letter with your name on it to every guard between me and the front gate. Whoever you are, you're a wanted woman now, and there's no going back.”
