The Silver Sparrow

The Four Assassins

It was only one week ago that Omar izr Fadzeik had sworn that he would be the one to kill the Salar of Rasharwi. He'd had no hard feelings, no problem with Salar Muradi for all the years he'd spent living in the city, perhaps even liked him as a ruler at some point. But Omar had also been an orphan left in a dark alley in the pleasure district, and the man who had saved him, raised him, and made him who he was had just been named a traitor and could be executed by the salar before the month was over.

He checked his bow and arrow again, up on the roof where he had been waiting, taking care not to touch the Zyren on the arrowhead. There were six arrows in his quiver, only three had been dipped in the poison. Zyren was expensive and any first-class assassin of Deo di Amarra was expected to hit the target, moving or not, with less than three. Omar had earned his gold ring at twenty-three, had become the head of Deo di Amarra's assassin six years later. It meant that if he shot at something, that something would die.

But you couldn't shoot to kill with one shot when the target was on a horse with the front of his torso automatically protected. Not in motion and not at that range unless you were good enough to get his throat or his head—a possibility, yes, but in the line of their business and for the reputation of Deo di Amarra's house of assassins, a mere possibility wasn't something they acted upon. The goal, that day, was to shoot to penetrate the skin and in doing so allow Zyren to work its magic. That much would have already been a challenge, given how many men would be surrounding the salar when he rode. One missed shot and they would be able to locate him on the roof and the opportunity would be gone. Salar Muradi, one had to remember, was also trained and advised by Deo di Amarra himself. The men he surrounded himself with were expected to— and could—kill with less than three arrows.

Omar had prayed that morning before he left his room, that the other three assassins would miss, and that he wouldn't. He would show his master what he could do, that he was still the best apprentice, the most reliable, not the Silver Sparrow.

The boy had been a pebble in his shoe the moment he'd arrived at di Amarra's residence. For almost three decades, Omar had been Deo di Amarra's closest apprentice. It had, however, taken him a decade to get from brass to silver to the golden ring he had now, years to be included in the master's inner circle and important meetings, and years to be relocated to Deo's personal quarter. The boy had moved into a room next to the master on the first day he arrived, had received his golden ring in just two years, and had become the only one Deo di Amarra had taken with him to the Tower. He was, Omar thought with a bitterness akin to the taste of poison they were made to drink daily, also the only one who had been allowed to call their master as Dee.

And now, that same boy was the one who'd gotten his master into prison and made him a traitor. That fact, most of all, made Omar swear, many times, that he would also be the one to kill the Silver Sparrow of Azalea one day.

For now, he had to kill the salar. Omar tightened the grip on his bow, looking back toward the Tower for a signal from the other assassins who would alert each other the moment they saw him ride out.

***

Every year in Rasharwi, on the longest day of the year, a large-scale sacrifice would be performed in front of Sangi temple to honor the sun god. Depending on the year's economy, three to five hundred animals would be slaughtered at the temple square, each offered by the citizens of Rasharwi and taken one by one to the altar to have its throat cut. The blood would be directed by a small man-made ravine to a large pool adjacent to the temple where citizens could come to drink and paint their faces, believing it would bring good fortune and grant protection against evil spirits. The meat from the sacrifice was then portioned and distributed to all the temples to be cooked and shared during a feast on the following night. Drisuli, the week-long religious event, also known as the Celebration of Blood by those who shunned the centuries-old practice, was just two weeks away from now.