Shaking myself, I head back to the cabin.
It’s time to examine her attacker and hope my fears aren’t confirmed.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Antony
The scent of blood fills my head as soon as I open the door.
The man’s body lies beside the bed, his neck wrapped in the circlet, his face turned away so I can’t yet identify him.
When I burst back into the cabin, I was in a blood rage, driven by Thyra’s scream. I ran as fast as I could through the forest to reach her, my throat tight and my fear high. I didn’t care about the man’s identity.
I only wanted him dead.
But now I need to know if he’s one of Mother’s lovers sent to do her bidding.
Quickly, I kneel beside the body, holding my breath.
I recognize him.
But it’s with relief.
He’s the furtive lowborn man from the crowd at the markets today. There’s no mistaking his short beard, sallow skin, or the distinctive scar across his forehead.
As disconcerted as I am that this man was watching Thyra today, I allow myself a moment of relief that he isn’t a highborn from Mother’s Court.
If ever I’m to kill one of her men, it has to be public. There must be witnesses. I can’t be accused of cold-blooded murder, or she’ll have a reason to overthrow me.
I guess even Mother isn’t so reckless as to try to kill the Oracle. Or at least, not brazenly. It doesn’t mean she didn’t send this man, only that she doesn’t want to be tied to his crime.
Reaching for his weapon, I study its construction, finding it clean of markings that indicate its origins. I’m nearly certain it wasn’t constructed here in the Iron Kingdom because every weapon created in my forges, whether its blade is made of iron or not, is marked with my insignia.
The dagger’s hilt is simple, but the darkness of the wood intrigues me; its color is more charcoal than any tree grown in the Iron Kingdom. The Ember Kingdom is barren, so the wood couldn’t have come from there. Possibly from the Frost Kingdom. Maybe from the far northern wilds.
The grain consists of whorls, circling around and around to a finer point, almost like the swirls on the pad of a finger.
Slipping the weapon into one of the empty holders built into the armor at my waist, I search the man’s pockets.
Aclinksounds as a single object falls from his pants.
An Ember coin clatters across the floor before I smack my hand down on it, stopping its path.
It’s silver, just like the Frost coin that struck me in the back.
I narrow my eyes as I contemplate what this could mean.
At first glance, it looks like this assassin was sent from Ember because he was paid in Ember coin, but Maxim would not be so foolish as to send a lowborn anywhere near me—their failure would beassured.
But if not him, then…who?
Someone killed Thyra’s father today. The same day that I was sent an anonymous note, drawing me to the village where she was hiding. A silver Frost coin was at the scene, flung into my back. Now, an assassin has come for Thyra, attacking her with a similar knife and carrying a silver Ember coin in his pocket.
All of these things must be connected; I just can’t see how yet. It’s like peering into a dark room through the narrowest crack of an open door, seeing only slivers of what’s inside.
I rise back to my feet, asking myself an unsettling question:Could there be another power at play?
I come back to my mother.
