“Why?”
“Because I’ve changed my mind,” Ileni said. “I want to send a message to my village after all.”
He nodded, and only then did she realize she wasn’t lying. She should have sent that message. Not to Tellis, necessarily, but to the Elders, or her mother, or one of the other novices . . . just to let them know she hadn’t forgotten them.
If she had, maybe she would be getting a message back now, to let her know they hadn’t forgotten her.
The knife thudded into the target, directly in the center, a killing throw. Sorin stepped back and gestured at Ileni.
“Your turn,” he said.
Ileni hefted her own knife, focusing on the target. A sharp line of pain shot through her upper arm, and she cheated just a bit with a tiny healing spell. She could hit this. She knew she could.
She stepped back and threw. As soon as the knife left her hand, she knew it would fly true. When it pierced the target, she laughed out loud.
Sorin lifted his eyebrows at her. “Have you been practicing on your own?”
“Of course not.”
“That’s impressive, then.”
She tried not to be too pleased. Over the past three weeks of knife-throwing lessons, Ileni had surprised herself by turning out to have a knack for blades. Not that she had anything approaching Sorin’s level of skill, but if anyone tried to attack her while she happened to be holding a perfectly weighted knife, gave her plenty of time to adjust her grip, and stood in one place long enough for her to aim, she would be more than able to defend herself.
Sorin nodded. “Step back.”
“What?”
He handed her the knife. “Take two short steps back, then throw again.”
She scowled at him, but obeyed. Her heart sped up as she gauged the new distance. She could hit it from here, too. And Sorin wouldn’t look impressed, but he would be.
She lunged and threw. The knife spun through the air, missed the target entirely, and hit the stone wall hilt-first. It landed on the ground with a crash that made Sorin wince.
Ileni swore, which turned his wince into a raised eyebrow. He met her glare for a moment, clearly amused, then loped over to the wall. Even just scooping up the knife, he was all smooth strength and swift movements, precise and deadly. She was starting to envy that instead of fearing it.
He handed her the knife again. “Try using your non-throwing arm to help you aim, the way we did back in our first lesson, and control the release. You threw too hard, and it spun too fast.”
“I know what the problem is.” And she did. She knew exactly how she had to move, what her body had to do. The problem was making her body do it.
He stepped to the side. “Then solve it.”
As if it was that easy. But it was, for him, the same way a problem shaping a spell would have been easy for her to fix. Didn’t he understand that her body wasn’t honed the way his was, that she couldn’t solve problems just by throwing perseverance at them? If she had her magic, she would show him. . . .
She stopped, knife in hand, poised in mid-throw.
“Ileni?” Sorin said.
She threw without paying attention, with predictably disastrous results. The knife spun wildly and hit the wall to the left of the target. It thudded to the floor, and she turned to Sorin. “Any assassin in these caves, even the teachers, could hit a target without half-trying.”
“You’re only starting to learn.” He headed toward the targets yet again. “And you have a real talent for—”
“So why,” Ileni said, “would any of them use magic to knife Cadrel?”
Sorin stopped in mid-step. “I assume it was to get through some sort of ward.”
“No. That spell was to throw the knife. If they used a spell to get through a ward, that was a separate thing. Why would an assassin use a spell to throw a knife? Under what circumstances would you do that?”
Sorin spun to face her. “None that I can think of,” he said slowly. “So there must be a reason I haven’t thought of.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Ileni said, and then almost laughed at the understatement. Of course it didn’t. Nothing made sense. She was lost in the dark, doing everything wrong, and somewhere, the master was laughing. Somehow, he had trapped her in the center of a web of intrigue she didn’t understand, predicting every move she would make. . . .
“Ileni?” Sorin said. He was right in front of her. “We’ll figure it out. If it does have to do with the spies, we’ll know more about that soon. We just have to wait. Sometimes it’s better to gather the pieces than to try to put together an incomplete puzzle.”
By now she was well used to that practiced, reverent tone. Another of the master’s sayings. The vise around her chest grew tighter. Trusting Sorin, even a little, was stupid. He wasn’t his own person.
And yet. He was inches away from her, a blade in his hand, but she wasn’t the slightest bit afraid of him. And it wasn’t just because of her ward.
It was because she was stupid.
She took a deep breath. “So we wait.”
“We do.”
She held out her hand. “While we’re waiting, let me try that throw again.”
Chapter 14
Two nights later, Ileni rolled out of bed at a knock on her door, relief flooding her mind and wiping it clean of restless dreams. Finally, it would be over.
Anticipation was written in every line of Bazel’s body. He greeted Ileni with a curt nod, and she nodded back. They walked without speaking through the dimly lit corridors, scrambled in silence over the labyrinth of rocks, and finally made their way down the narrow ledge that led to the river.
Sorin must be following them—he had been watching Ileni’s room since the night before, when Bazel had told her the spies were on their way—but hard as she strained her ears, Ileni couldn’t hear him.
The spies were waiting for them this time, lounging on the flat rock at the water’s edge. Now that she knew what they were, Ileni found it impossible to greet them with anything resembling friendliness. She stuck close to Bazel, hoping his obvious happiness would somehow encompass them both. Fortunately, she hadn’t been all that friendly last time. Maybe no one would notice the difference.
They didn’t. They traded and bantered and exchanged jibes, and the spies were relaxed and Bazel was happy, up until the moment Sorin appeared at the bottom of the path.
He was so silent that even Ileni, who had been expecting it, couldn’t have said when he stepped onto the flat rock. He was just there, his arms loose by his sides, his black eyes moving swiftly over the scene.
Bazel swore. Ileni tried to look startled, even though she wasn’t certain what the point of that was. The blond man scrambled to his feet, drawing a wicked-looking blade from beneath his tunic. This appeared not to concern Sorin at all.
Karyn remained seated, her hands braced on the ground at her sides. Her attention was wholly on Sorin. “What’s this?”
“His name is Sorin.” Bazel’s voice was flat. Every person in the small space—Bazel, the traders, Sorin—was taut with anticipation. Violence brimmed in the damp air, and a shudder ran through the length of Ileni’s body. She was suddenly certain she had done something terrible.
Karyn’s expression changed from anger to cold calculation. “I don’t suppose you would consider keeping quiet about our presence here? In return for, perhaps—”
Bazel interrupted her with a harsh laugh. “Don’t bother asking him to lie to the master.”
“Well, then.” Karyn leaned forward. “There’s only one way to ensure his silence.”
“Don’t bother trying that, either.” Bazel got to his feet. “He’s one of the best. The three of us together couldn’t so much as ruffle his hair.”
Three—so he assumed Ileni was on Sorin’s side. Or simply irrelevant.
“I know what you are,” Sorin said to Karyn. “You’re an imperial spy.”
Karyn sprang to her feet, and everything happened at once. As she drew a knife, Sorin leaped, with deceptive grace, and kicked. The knife flew from Karyn’s hand and thudded, hilt first, into the blond man’s forehead.
The blond man staggered back with a cry. He recovered, then raised his own blade.
Bazel darted in, grabbed the fallen knife, and sliced it neatly across the blond man’s throat.
He did it so easily, his movements as smooth—though not as fast—as Sorin’s. Blood spurted and the blond man fell, his arms flailing sideways and his heavy body hitting the ground with a thud. He cried out again, a staccato gurgling sound, and then the only noise was the rushing of the river.
It was that fast, that easy, that . . . irreversible. Bazel stepped back, the knife still in his hand, his face showing no more expression than if he had merely knocked the man unconscious. Karyn whirled and ran for the canoe, and Bazel cut her off. Sorin remained where he was.
Ileni stared at the blond man, at the blood spreading slowly across the stone. She could smell it, sharp and metallic. His blue eyes were wide and sightless, his mouth slightly open. A few minutes before, he had been laughing.
Ileni’s stomach twisted into a knot so tight she couldn’t breathe; then all at once it untwisted, and she was spewing its contents onto the white rock. She dropped to her hands and knees, stomach heaving again and again, even when there was nothing left to expel.
When she looked up, her throat burning, Bazel had Karyn trapped against the cliffside. He held the knife ready—a red drop dripped from its edge and splattered on the rock—but didn’t make a move toward her. Instead he glanced at Sorin.
“It’s not enough,” Sorin snarled at him. “This doesn’t make up for what you did.”
Bazel laughed wildly. Then he lunged at Karyn.
She dodged. Bazel’s blade slid across the side of her neck, not deep enough to kill. At the same moment, a surge of magic pulsed through the cavern. Ileni jerked her head up as the spell washed over her.
A thin shimmer of white flew down from the top of the cliff: a rope, lashing against the rock. While Ileni scrambled to her feet, Bazel grabbed the end of the rope and leaped upward, bracing his feet against the rock wall, moving faster than she would have believed possible. By the time she had closed her mouth, he was already invisible in the darkness above, the end of the rope twitching violently against the cliffside.
Sorin swore. He took a step toward Karyn, who was still as a statue. Then he flung himself at the rope, which thudded against the cliff as the two assassins raced up into darkness.
“I think,” Karyn said, pressing her hand to her neck, “that’s my cue to leave.”
Ileni turned sharply, her throat burning and tears stinging her eyes. Her voice came out in a croak. “You’re going to abandon Bazel?”
“He’s not exactly under my protection.” Karyn wiped her bloody hand on her tunic, then strode toward the blond man’s corpse. Ileni opened her mouth and closed it, feeling acutely helpless. If she’d had a knife . . . but she didn’t have a knife. “Besides, he’s probably already dead.”
Ileni hoped Bazel hadn’t heard that—or rather, hadn’t heard the total unconcern with which Karyn said it.
Why had Sorin gone after Bazel and left Karyn free to escape?
Karyn knelt by the blond man’s body, and Ileni thought she was going to say something, or close those staring blue eyes. Instead she slid both her arms under him, lifted the corpse, and without any sign of strain dragged it to the river and heaved it in.
The splash sent a spray of water against Ileni’s face, making her flinch away. By the time its echoes died, Karyn had gathered their cups and flung them into the boat, then pushed it into the dark water. A jagged stain marked the rock where she had dragged her friend’s body.
“Wait,” Ileni gasped. “You can’t—”