Chapter I

A Chapter by Emily C.

Arlyn shook the snow out of his dark hair as he entered the brightly lit tavern. With water droplets of melted snow falling from the fringe hanging in his eyes, he made his way to the bar, scanning the crowd for his friend and guardian. Spotting the familiar mop of golden locks, the seventeen year old elbowed his way through the thickening crowd of nighttime drinkers.

“Deorsa!” he cried, raising his voice to be heard over the chorus of voices that seemed to erupt as soon as he opened his mouth. It was a night such as any other, so the gathering was a puzzle to him. Arlyn huffed, unamused, but unable to move any further. In the midst of the action, the temperature of the tavern seemed to increase steadily. Sweat was quickly joining the rainwater dampening his hair.

Luckily for him, his guardian seemed to have a sixth sense for when he was needed. Fumbling his way out of the madness, Deorsa looked as if he were stumbling out of a steam house instead of a crowded corner. The blond spotted him immediately, heading in Arlyn’s direction as if he were walking through a fog-filled field, as opposed to the roaring river current Arlyn had been facing.

“Wet night out there?” Deorsa asked, raising his hand to Arlyn’s head, fingering a snow-soaked strand of the boy’s hair. Arlyn shook his head, throwing water droplets onto Deorsa’s dry clothes, laughing as the older man shot him a glare.

“Does that give you your answer?” Arlyn retorted. Deorsa smiled, punching the boy in the arm, then draping his arm over both shoulders, turning Arlyn and leading him back towards the door of the tavern. He addressed the younger man as he threw a nod to the bar tender.

“So what’s going on in the world of the Dogs this time?” he asked, taking up their overcoats from the hooks by the doors. Arlyn frowned when the sopping wet fabric was thrust into his hands, still dripping water onto the wooden flooring. Deorsa threw his own dry cloak about himself, smirking as he watched Arlyn wrestling with his. Arlyn shuddered as he covered his chilled body with the even colder fabric.

‘The Dogs’ was the common nickname given to the royal family and those associated with them. To the public, it meant that they were the lowest of the low, always begging for scraps and tending to their own wounds. To those who knew them, it meant that they were loyal to a fault, and would do anything to help those who were loyal to them in return. Every so often, these ‘Dogs’ would send for Deorsa; aid in the shadows when aid in the light was too risky.

As they exited the glowing tavern, the bitter cold and wet snow hit them full-force, instantly numbing their noses and sending frozen chills down their spines. They created footprints side by side in the drifting snow, and Arlyn told Deorsa of the lord found dead in his chambers that morning.

“They say he was decapitated.” Arlyn continued, his gloved hand unconsciously reaching for his throat, rubbing at it as if to make certain it wasn’t about to suddenly fall from his shoulders.

“Beheaded?” Deorsa asked, clarifying. He had watched Arlyn’s hand as the boy had told his news, a sense of guilt overcoming him at the truth of the brutal horrors the boy had been subjected to in their line of work. Arlyn nodded, momentarily unable to find his voice

“What do you make of that?” the boy asked, the sound of it rough and uncertain. Deorsa sighed heavily, fearing just what they were getting themselves into.

“An assassin, I’d say,” he replied sternly, “they’re the only monsters I can think of, save the executioners, that are heartless enough to do such a thing. The question is: what did our good lord get himself involved in that would call for such horrible consequences?”

Arlyn nodded absently, remaining silent to mull over the question his guardian posed. As he stepped forward, his foot slid on a sheet of ice hidden beneath the lightly packed snow, sending him flailing backwards into a thick snow bank. His right leg lashed out and caught Deorsa’s shin in turn, sending the older man crashing down as well.

All was still for a moment; Arlyn trying to calm his racing heart, and Deorsa trying to regain the breath that had been knocked out of him. Arlyn sat up in the snow, shivering as some of the wet powder fell between his clothes and the skin of his back. Deorsa groaned as he continued to simply lie where he had fallen on his side. Arlyn grinned, enjoying the man’s discomfort, and grabbed a handful of snow. He packed it carefully between his hands, trying hard not to give himself away by laughing.

Deorsa rolled over slowly, his arms spread to either side of his body. He groaned again as he sat up, making sure his young charge knew of his unhappiness. For all his efforts, Deorsa was rewarded with a ball of snow to the face. Arlyn’s laughter rang in his ears and through the empty street, easily heard over the moaning wind.

Deorsa huffed, exasperated at Arlyn’s child-like actions. Arlyn took aim again, threatening to launch if Deorsa were to broach the subject. The older man simply put his hands up in surrender, and got hit with another ball of snow regardless. Arlyn’s light laughter broke out again, and Deorsa glared at him jocularly. Embracing his inner child, even if for just a moment, Deorsa picked up a handful of snow and threw it at the boy in retaliation.

The harsh winter wind blew from all sides, making them both shiver and call a truce. They aided each other to their feet, and then hurried off to their shared housing. Upon breaching the front door, the elderly servant Deorsa employed, Aatos, appeared in front of Arlyn, scaring the boy half to death with his silent approach. He gave the two of them disapproving looks and addressed Deorsa.

“I shall go draw a hot bath,” he said, receiving a nod from his master, and retreating up the stairs to the wash room.

Arlyn stripped off his wet cloak, and hung it by the door.

“Warm water is just the thing to thaw our frozen fingers,” Deorsa remarked as he watched Arlyn move to the blazing hearth in the parlor, falling boneless to the floor and settling comfortably before the warm blaze. The boy shivered as the heat made contact with his frozen skin and damp clothing.

“Yes, but what I need right now are some dry clothes,” he replied, his exhausted muscles sagging listlessly in front of the fireplace, “but what about this whole assassination scenario?”

Deorsa had wished the topic could wait until morning. It was late, and he himself was cold and tired. Yet he knew the boy’s thirst for knowledge wouldn’t allow him to sleep, and a dead-to-the-world apprentice would not be of much use to him. Deorsa fell into a chair near the fire, the boy backing up to rest back against his legs.

“You know as well as I do that we don’t have much to go on so far.” He felt the boy nod his head against his knee. “So tomorrow, we will go to Leith’s estate, ask questions, look around, and all that. We will go to see the queen, try to get more information, and then,” Deorsa trailed off, at a loss of what to do after. “Well, we will come up with something. Fair?”

Arlyn thought on it for a moment, before agreeing. Whether he disagreed or not, there really wasn’t much else they could do anyway. He craned his neck to look up at his guardian.

“What’s your take on all of this? Revenge? Anger? Politics? What would cause someone to hire an assassin?” Arlyn blinked his bright green eyes, thinking through other possibilities even as he posed these. Deorsa thought it through as well.

“Any of those reasons could be cause enough for one to get an assassin to do their dirty work.” He answered. At this point, the old servant had returned, telling them that the bath water was prepared. Deorsa thanked him, and dismissed him, turning his attention back down to Arlyn. “Why don’t you go first? You must be chilled to the bone, what with those wet clothes.”

“I hope you weren’t thinking that I would be the gentleman and say ‘elderly first’, or anything

like that,” Arlyn smirked at him, “because I’m not going to have second thoughts about going first!”

With that, the young boy was off up the stairs, leaving Deorsa to his particularly foreboding thoughts.

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