"Poison." The woman sitting before me bares a stony expression. Strands of short, wavy black hair drifts into a soft-featured face. She brushes them aside with long, bronzed fingers that are lined with the orange and yellow of candlelight. "The Dinshei have stashes of it in their alcoves down below the sewers."
"Where?" My master asks, face set in a perfectly neutral expression.
"My master says the spies found it in the flooded areas of the catacombs though I have yet to see them myself."
I share a quick glance with my master, then lean forwards, brace my forearms upon the dark table between the woman and us to ask, voice light: "What did you say your name was?"
"I am Darya, spy and warrior of the Calradi guild." Her voice is highlighted by a harsh, raspy accent like two slabs of wood being rubbed against one another. The rawness of it grabs my attention. I study her closely. Silver eyes are set almost perfectly within her sockets, the colour accentuating the perfect shade of her brown skin. Her hair is black, a stark contrast to her pupils and her face clear: unharmed. She is not from Allyra, that much is apparent.
"Where are you from? Originally." I add.
It is the slight press of her lips before she speaks that alerts me to the lie even before it is voiced. "I come from the East."
"The East?" My master cuts in, leaning forwards to rest on his elbows. His robes, black crested with gold whorls, ripples like a sheet of gilded onyx. "Tell me, Darya, since when do the Guilds accept foreigners into our organisation?" I tense inwardly at the purposeful jab at the Calradi warrior's heritage. Her guild. I take note of her overcoat. It is a simple muddy brown trimmed with bronze that would skim the back of her knees upon standing. Her hood lays at her back, looking black in the evening light streaming through the window off to my left.
Her throat bobs the slightest. Not a trained assassin, then. "An exception was made for me, milord."
"Why?" His tone makes it apparent that he has caught onto the lie. "What is so special about you?"
When she does not answer, I speak. "We will force no information from you, Darya. Whatever you speak will be done so freely. If you divulge, we will keep whatever you desire secret though we care more for the Dinshei."
"Tell me," says my master, "how did your spies get into the flooded areas—they are flooded, are they not?"
"The flooded areas are mercenary grounds, as you know. It is widely believed that it has been flooded for years, when truly, it is not."
My brows pinch. "Are you saying the mercenaries have tricked us?"
She nods, reaching into her pocket. At the door, my master's second and third tense, fingers wrapping around blades. I glare sharply at them, they only mirror the expression.
From her pocket, she retrieves a neatly folded paper, opens it, places it on the dark table and slides it over. "I have spoken to the other masters already, you are last. The others have already agreed to the kill order issued by my master."
I bite down on my tongue, hard.
"Yours is the only signature remaining, milord."
My master leans back and touches his fingertips together. "Five have signed, why bother getting mine? It matters not. The majority have already won."
"It matters now, milord. The council want all to agree to the order lest someone...leaves, like the Dinshei did."
I note her choice of words: leaves, not betrays.
YOU ARE READING
Black Reign
Fantasy[[ON PAUSE]] Seven guilds. A continent under siege. And a war to tear apart another. Astryd is the Heiress to the Sayaadi. Infamous for nothing more than her brutality and ruthlessness, Astryd has claimed her place as Heiress. For years, she has p...