“Yes,” I said.
“Did your vision show,” he said, slowly, as if every word was its own command, “that we wouldn’t win?”
He knew the answer, of course. Knew why I couldn’t bring myself to say it.
I bit my cheek for a long moment. Too long.
“We would win.” He answered his own question. “The bloodshed would be his.”
He sounded downright smug about it.
My fingernails cut half-moon marks in my palms. I wouldn’t beg a vampire for anything. Let alone a conqueror. I should let it go. Let him act. Let him win. Follow my orders, and earn his loyalty.
I just—couldn’t.
“You don’t want to rule over a dead kingdom,” I said. “I respect you for that.”
I paused, reconsidering. What did my respect mean to him?
“Your soldiers respect you for that,” I corrected. “I’ve seen that since the moment I arrived here. You can win by your strength alone. But, please, it’s—”
I bit my tongue. Please. Begging.
“It isn’t the wise way,” I said, at last.
He didn’t speak. I resisted the urge to shift beneath his stare, so steady it felt like he was peeling back layers of my skin.
“I intend to avoid meaningless bloodshed, but I don’t know what gave you the impression that I came here to avoid all of it,” he said finally. “I’m here to win. To take what your king doesn’t deserve. He took it by force, just as centuries of conquerors have before him. We evolve, but war is the same. It isn’t up to me to redefine that.”
I knew this. Knew it was a downright laughable idea that a Bloodborn conqueror, of all people, would be the one to take some kind of moral high ground.
And yet… why did some part of me think he would?
Why did some part of me think it would matter to him?
I didn’t say anything, letting the silence stretch on—letting Atrius fall into his obvious contemplation. After a long moment, a scowl flitted over his mouth, as if in reaction to a silent argument he’d been having with me in his head.
“You actually think I care at all about the fates of some useless human ingrates?” he spat.
It was a challenge.
And… a real question.
“I do,” I said, and to my shock, it was the truth. “I don’t know why. But I think, maybe, you do.”
He scoffed. Paced. Turned. And then, finally, turned back to me.
“Suppose I listen to your foolish advice, for some ridiculous reason I still can’t make sense of. What alternative is there? How do you expect me to take down a city-state with no army?”
It was, I had to admit, a very valid question.
I considered this. Then I straightened. Suddenly, I no longer felt unsteady on my feet.
“You might recall,” I said, “that I was an assassin for fifteen years.”
Atrius stared blankly at me. Seconds passed.
Then the bastard burst into laughter.
23
The Arachessen taught that the desire for vengeance existed only in the weak. There was no such thing as justice—not mortal justice, anyways, only that of the gods and the Weaver’s threads of fate. Something far too complex for us to understand. A desire to seek it was not only pitiful, but stupid—one who truly trusted the Weaver knew that a human assessment of right and wrong was flawed and inconsequential.
I knew these teachings well. I recited them to the students I taught. In general, I believed them.
But maybe I did still succumb to those marks on my soul the Arachessen had not been able to wash away, sometimes. Because the thought of killing Tarkan—the thought of killing him with my own hands—was downright intoxicating. I did not acknowledge that perhaps I had some reasons for doing this beyond the desire to avoid bloodshed in Vasai.
Then again, the more I talked, the more I genuinely believed it was the better of the two courses.
Yes, Tarkan had a large army, but it was scattered and poorly trained. The vast majority of his soldiers were only loyal because of their crippling addictions to a steady stream of Pythoraseed—a stream controlled by Tarkan alone. He was a distrustful man. He promoted few, and truly trusted fewer. He had clung ruthlessly to his own power, but as a result, he created a machine with a single, critical weakness: him.
If Tarkan himself were dead, his army would be useless. It didn’t matter how big it was then.
We didn’t have to slaughter his army. We only had to kill him.
Atrius listened as I told him all of this, expression blank.
“And you intend to do that yourself,” he had said, not bothering to hide his skepticism.
“Do you know how many assassinations I carried out as a member of the Arachessen?” I paused at that—I actually wasn’t sure of the number. I settled on, “Many. And most of them were very powerful.”
Though none were Tarkan—even if, every assignment, I hoped they would be. I knew better than to suggest him as a target, even though he was important to the Pythora King’s reign, which made him a perfectly viable one. The Sightmother would have her suspicions about why I wanted him. I wasn’t willing to risk her opinion of me.
“I’d be a fool if I let my only seer run into the enemy’s grip alone,” Atrius said. “Someone else will do it.”
I arched my brows. “Who among your warriors can be an assassin? They aren’t exactly subtle.”
“I’ll do it myself.”
I laughed before I could stop myself, which made Atrius’s scowl deepen.
“I’ve killed things you’ve only dreamed of,” he said.
My laugh faded. I had no doubt that was true.
I’ve slaughtered demigods, he’d snarled at Aaves.
Demigods. I wanted that story sometime.
“I’ve seen you fight,” I said. “You’re good. But you aren’t subtle, either. One glance at you and everyone will know you’re a threat.”
That was a light way of putting it. Atrius outright reeked of “predator.”
“And you?” he said coldly, gesturing to me—gesturing, I knew, to my blindfold. “You’re better at being subtle?”
I smiled. “Perhaps my appearance is unusual. But don’t worry about me. I know how to kill quietly.”
At that, a flicker of a smirk. He leaned closer, and to my shock, his fingertips brushed the soft underside of my chin.
“Hm,” he said. “To think I let such a dangerous creature sleep beside me every night.”
I froze momentarily, caught off-guard. Was he teasing me? Was it a joke? Atrius either had no sense of humor or the strangest one I’d ever seen—which was saying something, coming from the Arachessen.
Or was he flirting with me? That thought seemed even more incomprehensible than the joke.
But, I reminded myself, it was good for my mission if he wanted me. Another avenue to his trust.
If I was a better Arachessen, I would have seized the moment. Instead, I awkwardly pulled away, startled by the strange double beat in my chest but showing him no sign of it.
“Nor should you forget it,” I said, which earned another one of those peculiar almost-smiles.
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.
“Fine,” he said. “Tell me, formidable assassin, how this plan of yours would work.”