Rhea wants nothing more than to kill her father. But not just because he's any run-of-the-mill scumbag. No, he's a god. And he's the one who cursed her with being a goldblood -- half human, half godling. Good for her, she's willing to do anything to...
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I TELL EVERYONE THAT THE WIFE IS WEAK AND DYING SOON, AND THAT THE LORD BRAN DOES NOT WISH TO BE DISTURBED WHILE HE KEEPS HER COMPANY IN HER LAST MOMENTS.
No one doubts me. In fact, people look relieved. No serving lunch and preparing for dinner. No worrying about staying silent or risking a limb or tongue over how the wine was poured.
The silence of a tyrant is always welcome news.
I make myself busy for the rest of the day, making sure to keep everyone away from Bran's room, even the son. He doesn't even question it.
While I have complete faith in my ability to spin tales and tell believable lies -- yet another part of training -- after all these years, I still have a small laugh when I am alone at how gullible mortals are.
No wonder they die so easily, and all the time at that. Even the difficult ones fall prey to lies eventually. It's just a matter of how many I have to tell.
When night comes, I go back to the room to keep up my act. I make sure I fall asleep after a few people, but before others, so they can see that I am asleep. Their testimonies will be useful later.
Then I slip out to the son's room. He's not expecting my company, and looks surprised when he opens the door to find me outside.
"Can I come in?" I say shyly.
He looks even more taken aback at that. It's improper for a woman to invite herself in to man's room, and unthinkable for a servant to do. But what are a few improprieties when he is mere moments away from dying?
I'm sure he won't mind, I think wryly as he waves me in. Because I'm about to make it worth his while.
People think of murder like it is a gruesome thing. And it can be. It is. I do not deny that. Even I can't be blasé about having so much blood on my hands.
But it is also an art.
And if there is anyone who is skilled in the art of the death, it is the Rozi. We are careful, intentional about how we kill and who we kill. We leave no traces of our presence. We let our assignments die in the company of a beautiful woman, whether in the throes of passion or in conversation. Is that not a kind favor? The common gang and mercenary would do no such thing.
He sits on the edge of his bed and hesitantly gestures for me to sit at his desk.
I don't. Instead, I stand in front of him.
He doesn't force it.
"What brings you here?" he says, watching me curiously.
"I lost my mother at a young age," I say. "I know what it feels like to lose a parent. So...I want to help you."
All those years of pain and revenge, boiling down to a half-truth. Albeit a useful one.
"I thought...I thought the gods weren't real. That's what my father said," he says slowly.
