Foxfire (The Blood Oath) old version

Chapter 12: The Rose Prince

. . . Shadowstealer . . .

    

To kill.

It was the greatest of sins to all whom dwelled in the Nine-Worlds. Zelos stroked her thin blade with a white piece of cloth. Beads of sweat ran down her face as she set her gaze on the gates to Moat Hardwater, glorious fortress that housed Balder, Highprince of Bjaarmaland.

Observation.

It was the greatest talent to people of her ilk. She remembered when the cult had named her Shadowstealer. Then, she had successfully killed a temple priest while he was performing a bonding ceremony to students of Illusion. Not even the famed masters of clairvoyance could see through her veil of deception. Their blood-sigil had been no match for hers, just as it would be again.

Her masters had ordered her to murder the much loved Prince and kill his guests while in the act. Innocent or guilty, it didn't matter. Half the prominent High-born nobles in the Nine Worlds were gathered at the Castle hall and they wanted a spectacle.

It would be her masters offering to their Dark Lord, Vvenom.

Zelos pondered on what she would have been if she had never pledged her body and soul to the Night Cult. Would she be satisfied tiling soil at the countryside? Would she be happy living at the seaside with a handsome young man? No, she shook her head. Too much blood has stained her fingers, both guilty and innocent. There are no what ifs for girls like her. It was only duty, even if it had stolen her happiness.

BONG! BONG! BONG! BONG! BONG!

It was time.

Zelos reached her hands at her back and pushed up her rice farmer's hat to hide her face. The drums signaled the commencement of the festival of Seven Divines, a sacred celebration to the Seven Patrons of magic in Bjaarmaland.

She had observed her target, Highprince Balder, third in a list of many who must fall by her blade.

Zelos stood up from the half-buried stone that had served her. Her buttocks ached, but she ignored them. She had spent three days marking the castle's entry point and it has proven to be a solid fortress. The cheers of a crowd drew her attention to the portcullis. Riders in horses charged through and a carriage followed behind.

The steeds halted, digging their hooves in the sand. Dust rose in the air forcing bystanders to cough hard, but it did little to diminish their joy. Banners and placards followed, fluttering in the air. Curtain with several sigils imprinted on them rolled down battlements. The carriage opened. Noble men and women descended in their brightly coloured attire. Zelos noticed how theirs was different from that in Yamatai, her province of birth. The narrow-eyed islanders dressed in colourful silk robes, while folks from these parts wore proud garments of patterned fibre.

Up in the sky, behind the thick grey clouds, the sun was sinking westwards. A red crimson ray spread upon the chunks of clouds.

"Blood clouds for a bloody evening," Zelos muttered, thinking of what an old legend told.

She slunk behind a nearby tree and pressed her body upon its trunk. The challenge now was getting into the castle. A crew of gourmet presented an answer. Zelos studied them in keen. The women ran around in their white caps and aprons, working themselves to meet the needs of their masters. A supervisor moved around the tables, dipping his finger in their foods and tasting it. He was a large man in a black tunic, cracking his whip to keep the fear alive.

Most of the women were Chinooks, her kin, bought from Yamatai. It made her furious to see the way they were pushed around. Zelos hated the sight of women being dragged and worked like beasts of burden. But she remembered her master's warning that folks from Bjaarmaland traded in slaves. It was their way of life and would not change even if the heavens should fall on earth.