Blood of the Red

Chapter 6 - Shallo

Chapter 6 – Shallo

Shallo shed her old life like a cloak. The pretence she had been living for the last nine months dropped from her step by step. She walked from Lord Martal's mansion without looking back, her pace unhurried. August con Larna lay rotting in the orangery, and two years of planning lay in ruins. Such is the price you pay, she told herself.

The stable boy ran to get her horse. Shallo contemplated the stars, barely twinkling in the coal-sack sky.

"There'll be a hard frost afore dawn." The stable boy handed Shallo her reins.

Shallo mounted easily and nudged her pale gelding into a slow trot. Such is the price you pay when the king that your father swore to is the spineless puppet of the Black Priests. When honour binds you to the darkest path.

The road led straight as an arrow before her. Down from the con Jallans' ancestral hall and out into the wideness of the world. Tall poplars lined its length, bare of leaves, a hundred sentinels to watch her passage. From iron gates, wrought like battling griffons, the road led west toward the city of Thelim and east to the Fastness of Rhune.

The mansion grew small behind her. Shallo took a bitter pride in her talent for leaving. The art is to let nothing sink its hooks into you. There's a strength in that. And a weakness.

A mile along the west road the way divided, and Shallo took the smaller trail. Its turns would bring her through the southern skirts of the Myrdrin forest and thence, through rough downs, to the distant port of Glorsa. The wind blew blustery, laced with icy rain. It would be a long ride.

Bound by honour. Shallo savoured the lie. They say the best liars believe their own invention, but she did not. Perhaps in time she would learn that art too. For now, she rolled the bitter truth beneath her tongue. The Black Priests' hold on her went further than loyalty to father, king, or country. The chains that bound her to the Black were forged from fear and desire in equal measure. The Black Priests' promise held her. That which the Undying ones had sworn to deliver to her, sworn on the Blood. Shallo rode on, beneath the arching branches of the trees, and the utter darkness of the forest swallowed her whole.

Shallo had ridden the road in daylight. In the dark she let memory guide her, moderated by whatever glimpses the night offered. She knew the trees grew thick to either side. The trail would be clear, and firm enough now the ice had its teeth in the ground. She let her gelding find its way. She could see nothing save the occasional splash of moonlight. When the pines gave way, the moon would show her path more clearly. Her thoughts patterned themselves on the darkness.

August's dead face swam before her in the void. Shallo regarded him coolly. She was used to ghosts. His death did not touch her. You were weak, she told him, needlessly cruel and deaf to the music of the world. And a rapist. She caught herself in the lie. Probably a rapist. Probably. The accusation stood unproven, and it would keep him company in the grave. Serving girls had been known to lie about such things before, but Shallo had seen the woman, a child really, before the con Larnas shipped her off to service in Conault. Lies are cheap, but missing teeth, a swelling belly and haunted eyes, speak truer than words.

Ten miles into her journey Shallo reined her steed before the Drinwash. The full moon sailed high in the sky now, washing the banks with a cold light. There was a ring about it, a ghostly halo, faint against the black sky. The river stood just five yards across, a whisper of what it would become before reaching the sea. An ancient bridge of moss-covered stone carried the trail over the water. Shallo turned her horse from the path, down into the shallows, turning downstream. If hounds were set to find her she would prefer that they did not. Even if they kept her scent it would make the going more difficult for any pursuit.

The moon drew her eye tonight. She didn't know why, but it seemed to watch her. Shallo did not care for the sensation. An assassin tries never to be seen for what they are, and their deeds are best unknown. What no-one sees might never have happened. That's as close to absolution as an assassin gets.

Two hours before the threat of dawn Shallo made cold camp. Winter stood on the threshold, Autumn all but gone in a swirl of dead leaves. The night grew icy, but Shallo had known many worse. Sarkasian winters breed a hardy people. There are times when none of the threats a fire might bring are greater than the threat of freezing. This was not such a time. Shallo took her sleep-sack, double-layered leather stuffed with goose down, and set it upon heaped bracken. She tethered her horse and crept within her bed.

Shallo drew the sack over her head, shivering. The port of Glorsa lay two days off, two days of hard riding. "To kill a man with red hair," Shallo whispered her appointed task. To kill a thief and take from his corpse an iron amulet, a quartered-circle. Two days ride and then a man named Ingold would die. Maybe first she would find out why the Priests of the Black desired this thing so badly. Perhaps she would collect a few facts. On a solid foundation of facts, plans could be built. And on plans a life could rest. Coiled in her sack she slept without dreams until the sun found her.

Once, on the second day of her journey, Shallo caught the baying of hounds, distant and on the wind. The pursuit, if such it was, came no closer. At noon she broke her fast on stale bread, an apple, and the drumstick of a swan, taken from Lord Martal's table. She let her horse forage for the grass that grew spare around the fallen trunks in the glade. I should name that animal, she thought absently as she rummaged in her pack. Her questing fingers found the glass vial for which she'd been searching. She drew it out and unsealed the cork, pouring the oily black contents into the palm of her hand. It took a few minutes to work the dye thoroughly through her hair, down into the roots. Her scalp would be covered and her face marked with trickles, but at the next stream it would come off her skin and stay in her hair.

Shallo found the wertweed at the very bottom of her pack. The herb smelled foul enough on its own, but after months spent neglected amongst her travelling kit it proved rank indeed. She steeled herself, and bit off a good chunk. The 'weed squelched between her teeth. She chewed it whilst erasing all trace of her time in the glade, and continued chewing it as she led her horse away along a deer-trail. The stuff tasted better than it smelled, but only marginally. The bitter juice burned her throat. It would lend a greenish tinge to her skin for the next day or so but her eyes would be emerald for a month.

"Find me now!"