The Peafowl and the Grayshroud

An assassin waits in the shadows for innocent, blonde, airy Lady Vesena. It's almost disappointing, really, expending energy to plant a knife in such an easy target....

Andes suppressed a sigh, as well as the urge to fondle the black-bladed dagger in his hand. That vacuous peafowl of a woman was fixed, once again, upon her (quite seemly) reflection in the mirror. How much longer would this go on? It wasn't as if he couldn't strike from his current position- he wasn't known as the Viper for nothing- but his orders had been clear. Exceedingly, nearly terminally clear. Do not strike until she sleeps, not should she bow her ivory neck before your dagger and beg you to slit her throat. Andes hadn't the faintest idea what would justify such caution; the woman's head was clearly unencumbered by anything other than her nigh-blinding golden locks. But, such were his orders, and he had no reason to anger one as illustrious- and disgustingly rich- as his current client. Besides, as many of his profession had often remarked, 'they don't pay me to think'. Of course, those words often proceeded rather unfortunate (and, of course, terminal) lapses in professional judgment, but Andes was above such naivete. After all, he'd survived a decade in one of the world's most dangerous trades, hadn't he?

His thoughts flashed to Jochi, burnt like a loaf in a blacksmith's furnace by a sleepy, half-naked, and, crucially, well-prepared Lord on the last day of his twentieth year as a Grayshroud. The thought provoked a smile. He'd never liked Jochi. The man was entirely too confident in his ability to beat Andes at checkers. 'I never did get one over on him before he went.' What a shame. Now he never would.

Andes was jolted out of his reflections by the golden peafowl's voice. She was.... singing? Oh, keta. Singing and brushing her hair. He'd be here all night. I could just kill her now. How would they ever find out? Oh, of course. Some blasted love song. Those always irritated Andes the most. I mean, why do they expect me to sit here all night and watch her preen her blasted feathers? She's a moron! She doesn't even lock her chamber doors, and she knows full well she's got powerful enemies. Some sort of Succession issue. Andes never paid those too much mind. Some delusional blueblood would end up under the Crown of Stars no matter who died first... Why even bother? The process may have made Andes a rather well-off man, but that didn't mean he understood the reasoning behind it.

The Lady's song trailed off, and she sighed. Blasted brilliant. She's mooning over some milk-eyed weanling. Probably thinks she's singing to him across the innumerable stars or some such rot.

“Oh, that I were a bird!” Oh, kill me now. She's composing poetry. Probably fancies herself a tragic heroine. “That I could fly where I willed, free on the wild winds.” She spun, skirts flying.

A tragic heroine who's worse than usual at poetry.

“Summer storm, grant me your breath to soar upon your whirlwinds! Give me lightning for my belt and rain for my gown!

And hailstones for my...

“Give me the thunder as my sounding horn!” She fell dramatically upon her bed, doll-like face contorted in most imagined and contrived of agonies. Andes nearly laughed aloud. Most of his targets weren't considerate enough to entertain him. He'd have to thank her before she bled out.

“Tempest of snow, I beseech thee, grant me thy snow as a shroud of gray, thy ice as a dagger!”

Andes started. What the.... A coincidence, surely... The creature couldn't know of his presence. That shining head turned, revealing eyes of blue steel. Eyes trained steadily, unwaveringly on Andes' hiding place. In her delicate hand, a blade, seeming glass or ice. A Hestasa blade. Andes' heart sank. No point in running now. The itch between his shoulders told him that dagger was trained on him, and Hestasa blades did not relinquish their prey. Already, he could feel the strength seeping out of his body. Korva. This's how he went. Blast. Insufferable man.

“Oh, falcon, of birds most free, grant me thy striking talon, thy cruel beak, thy wings, and thine eyes, for my prey awaits.” Her arm, sinewy and impossibly strong, reached into the curtains and pulled Andes, eyes beginning to glaze, out of the shadows. In vain, he struggled to raise the hand with his dagger. Hers, she held at his throat.

“You are... Andes?” His eyes widened, but he found that he was unable to speak. “ Yes, yes, I shouldn't be able to know that, of course. I'm just the darling little doll with royal relations, a minor obstacle for those who lust after the Star Crown. After all, starlight on gold? How gauche.” She smiled. There wasn't much warmth in it. “Well, I would say something along the lines of 'You can tell that popinjay Geron exactly how little it avails him to meddle with the Lady Vesena', but I'm afraid you won't have the chance. My blade of ice is eager for blood.”

She must have read the question in his eyes.“How did I place the tracker on you?” She sighed. “No one ever questions the spin. What kind of noble with a lick of self-preservation can't throw a dart while spinning? Benumbed, of course.”

She actually did it. This little... little... doll woman, she has the nerve, the gall...” Thoughts were now forming with more and more difficulty.

“Ah, well, now he insists... Andes... Checkmate.” He barely felt the dagger plunge into his shoulder. Why... why shoulder... why not throat... not kill... She pulled him around to face the mirror.

“Just one last thing to resolve before your regrettable early departure...” In the mirror, her face, the blue ice that masqueraded as her eyes, his face, drained of blood and slack.

“You aspire to moderate intelligence. Now, tell me... What do you see in my mirror?”

“Why... Should I... play your game....” Calmly, she twisted the dagger handle protruding from his shoulder. The pain unsealed his lips.

“I see... A cold-blooded killer... And myself.”

“Ah, you understand! Good for you. You could be entertaining. Not enough to save you, however.” Her fingertips brushed the dagger handle. One yank, and it would all be over. Hestasa daggers liked to keep their victims alive. “Every time I look in the mirror, my cold, pitiless eyes, and the reflected face of a man sent to kill me. All my life, every day since I this whole kashta ordeal began. Astonishing, don't you think, that I've maintained such a vapid front this long? Aren't you impressed? Well, it hardly matters. Already you know more about me than my closest friends... and so, of course, you have to die.”

Had Andes been alive to remember, he would have recalled in his last moment, before the dagger ripped away, taking with it his soul, only an overwhelming sense of pity.

Reviews

[Fictionborn]

When the predator becomes the prey, poor ignorant Andes. Enjoyed the write! There are some grammar issues you would need to have a look on, though. But I like the idea of the story. Well done!