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Chapter Text

The plan was simple. Dress as a Pleasure Worker, garner Queen Elisende’s attention enough to be invited to her bedchamber, slice her throat in a vulnerable moment, and leave through the Painting Passage.

          Oriana preferred the simple ones. They were cleanly done, and paid reasonably well. The more complex, she left for her Sisters, who enjoyed weaving their webs of polik and killing the victims at the precise moment they realised the women were Mages.

          This, however, was well on its way to becoming the opposite.

          It was the Red Autumn Festival, and the White Hall of Wreswald Castle was filled to the brim with the queendom’s people: nobles and working people, soldiers and guards. It was as packed and as hot as a crowded square in summer. In her corner, lingering among the Pleasure Workers who had yet to be asked a favour, Oriana was miserable. The uniform was thick, made of cotton and velvet, and covered her from shoulders to ankles. There was barely enough room to tuck her letter opener against her thigh. She wished, not for the first time that night, that Master Philippa had requested she dress scantily instead. Her body would have been on more display than she liked, but at least then she would be cooler.

          The room temperature ale and wine helped nothing. Nor did the fact that Queen Elisende hardly glanced in the direction of the Pleasure Workers. Her attention was not on the nobles at her table, but on her cups, which she drained in quick succession and picked up more from a passing server’s tray. She only picked at the food on her plate, a fact at which Oriana rolled her dark eyes. What sort of ruler ignored fine food, especially expensive, imported ones? This queen, apparently. Or perhaps she was a picky eater, and the food was not at all to her liking.

          Regardless, there was no chance Queen Elisende would wander over and ask for company. As deep into her cups as she was, she would stumble, and fall flat onto her pretty face, having tripped over her own robes.

          Oriana amused herself with the image as she rose from the table with a sigh and made for the ale barrels. Another Pleasure Worker, an older woman with flowers woven into her inky hair, said, “If you’ve not been propositioned yet, it’ll be a very long night.”

          “Worst for last, is it?”

          “Oh, yes.” Blue eyes gave her a quick once-over. “Though you, darling, are pretty as a jewel.”

          “Is this the part where you parade me around?”

          Brown and blue eyes settled on a man leading around another Pleasure Worker, a lovely redhead, clearly offended that no one seemed to be interested in her. Oriana’s new friend hummed. “I think not,” she said. “Jewels are always found after going unnoticed.” Someone called her name, and the woman gave Oriana a quick wink, leaving her at the barrels.

          Poisoned drink, thought Oriana, returning to the table, would have worked much better. The queen would be on the floor by now, choking on her own throat. But it had escaped Master Philippa’s notice that Queen Elisende of Hareford was a drunk. Or perhaps she withheld that information.

          The ale tasted grassy, but still Oriana drank, and took a gander of the crowded room.

          Crimson hangings dangled from arches and rafters, displaying an outline of the castle woven in cloth of silver, with a full, red moon rising above it. Other hangings were white and bore the crest of Hareford: a jackrabbit bearing crown and sceptre. A rather plain symbol, thought Oriana. The colours there were plain, too, unlike the ones that populated the room. It was as if these people had descended from rainbows, bearing each of its colours in their costumes. Even the uniform she now wore felt a little ridiculous: deep purple with white accents and silver buttons and cufflinks. But Hareford was wary of outsiders, and Oriana could not give herself away as a Mage, lest she lose her life instead of Queen Elisende.

          Toward the front of the room was a band of musicians playing a lively tune. Dancers frolicked around them, some drunker than others, and sang the lyrics to Princess Mary’s Lady loudly and off key. In the shadows were kissing couples, pulling at clothes to reveal a breast, a cunt or a cock, shamelessly coupling despite the public space. Oriana was as free as these people, but she preferred her own needs to be met in the privacy of a bedchamber.

          Bored with looks, she relaxed a little against her table, seeking only a small amount of polik. She stretched her mind outwards, feeling the auras of the room, reading them, finding joy and happiness, desire, loneliness. Only when she reached Queen Elisende’s table did she feel impossible sadness, as black as a lifeless void. She released the polik before the feeling could invade her own body, and realised that Queen Elisende was no longer seated at her table.

          Oriana sat straight, glancing about the room for signs of the queen, finding none.

          She stretched her mind again, this time focusing on the nobles at Queen Elisende’s table. They spoke of her retiring to bed, and of her unhealthy obsession with drink, and her latest abandoned lover.

          Ten ticks, Oriana told herself. Wait ten ticks.

          It was as syrupy as the rest of her time here, but once they passed, Oriana was filled with new determination. She downed the rest of the terrible ale, carried her cup to a server collecting dirtied dishes, and made her way through the White Hall, toward the doors that would lead her to the Queen’s Quarters. Hands reached for her. Women called out to her; some even licked lewdly between their fingers and gestured for her to come over. Oriana shook her head, but the women were far too busy laughing themselves silly to notice.

          Outside the White Hall, it was a little quieter. Pleasured, elated moans travelled from behind archways and posts. Oriana walked quickly left, abandoning them, and was grateful when she passed through a heavy door that brought complete silence at last. Here, the air was chilly, and smelled of rich rugs and cool marble. There were no guards, either, but considering the occasion, they were likely keeping watch over more important rooms.

          Oriana touched the polik again, immediately feeling the remnants of Queen Elisende’s aura. She hadn’t seen its colour before; the White Hall had been far too crowded. It was grey blue, like the sea at dawn after a stormy night, where the water and shore crawled with fog, and the clouds lingered for days. She followed the tendrils down the East Passage, then up several flights of curving stairs. Close to the top, she cast a silencing spell, and pushed open the door.

          The Queen’s Bedchamber was to the right, guarded by a single, tall woman. When she caught sight of Oriana, she straightened instantly, clutching the shaft of her halberd tightly. With more polik, Oriana was able to alter the woman’s perception. You see only a Pleasure Worker. The queen asked for me. The woman’s grip loosened on her halberd, and she allowed Oriana through.

          Before shutting the door behind her, Oriana altered the memory. Queen Elisende told you she would have company. She does not want to be disturbed until dawn.

          Oriana locked the door.

          The bedchamber was the richest Oriana had ever laid eyes on. Unlike the downstairs, where marble was the main feature, this was panelled with dark, oiled wood. The bed was a large four-poster, with a crimson hanging clinging to each corner. On the floor was a single, massive rug, depicting the same scene as the white and crimson hanging in the White Hall.

          To the left of the bed were three thin but latticed windows, outside of which lay the Summer Garden, fallow and brown. Beneath them, a large mahogany desk, whose surface was scattered with letters and books and thin cylinders of crimson sealing wax. To the left of that was another room, the bathing chamber. If Oriana turned back to the bed, there was a painting to its right, hiding the Passage behind it.

          And in the middle of the bed, covered by sheets and furs, was Queen Elisende, her breathing deep and even. Oriana had yet to cut off the flow of polik. As soon as she focused her attention on the sleeping queen, she sensed the losses that plagued her, the grief that kept her from sleeping soundly, the emptiness she tried to fill with sex and with drink, the frustration that nothing worked, the further frustration that her life had lost its colour. She sensed just how drunk Queen Elisende was.

          Oriana released the polik and stepped back from the bed, but her shoe caught on the rug and she fell heavily to the floor, rousing Queen Elisende from a light slumber.

          “Mathilde?” she slurred. “That you…?” She sat up. The furs slipped from her shoulders, revealing milky skin and full breasts tipped with deep pink nipples.

          Oriana averted her gaze, face hot with the realisation she found the queen beautiful, and stood quickly. Queen Elisende regarded her for a long moment, wherein her mask of sleepiness turned into one of realisation. “You… have the wrong room, madam…”

          Oriana cleared her throat and said, “I was told you wanted me.”

          “What…?”

          “Yes, my lady.” Internally, she cringed, hoping that was the proper title.

          “By whom?”

          “A fellow worker.”

          Queen Elisende regarded her again. It took all of Oriana’s effort to keep eyes on the queen’s face. “Did they say I was lonely?”

          “I—”

          “They would not be lying.” The queen ran long fingers through her golden hair. “I am very lonely. But I do not remember asking for company.”

          “My friend said you requested me specifically, my lady. I believe it was after I had walked past your table.” The tale felt wrong as it left her lips.

          Queen Elisende’s mouth formed into a frown. A crease appeared between her golden brows. Then, “I… suppose I did ask for company.” She met Oriana’s eyes. Hers were bright blue, like a summer sky. “Will you come closer?”

          Oriana stepped forward. Her letter opener felt heavy against her thigh. Her fingers twitched at her sides, making ready to reach for it, but she stood stock still, allowing the drunk, half-nude queen to take her in.

          Now, her body screamed. You were waiting for a vulnerable moment. This is the one.

          But Oriana could not shake the feelings the queen’s aura had given her, nor could she tear her eyes away from pain-filled ones. It was so deep, so desperate.

          It stayed Oriana’s hand.

          Queen Elisende leaned to kiss her.

           Oriana turned her head away, saying, “You are drunk, my lady.”

          “Does it matter?”

          “Yes. Yes, of course it does.”

          Soft lips pressed against Oriana’s cheek, clumsy and sweet. In fact, Queen Elisende smelled sweet, like peregrine fruit. Wine, Oriana figured, or perhaps it was a perfume, but there was not much time to figure it out; Queen Elisende took her hand and began to kiss Oriana’s fingers.

          “I shall pay you finely,” Queen Elisende said against them.

          “I have no need of your coin.” Oriana tried to pull her hand back, but the queen’s grip was surprisingly strong.

          “Then stay for the pleasure.” She outlined Oriana’s index with the tip of her tongue. Oriana watched, repulsion and sudden arousal battling in her gut, hating the slickness that was building between her thighs. “I shall make it worth your while.”

          “My lady…”

          “I promise.” She took that finger into her mouth, sucking slowly, her warm, slick tongue joining in the effort. Oriana’s breathing increased. She cursed silently even as she allowed this to go on. She cursed the need slicking her smallclothes, and her eyes for glancing at the queen’s breasts.

          Queen Elisende released her fingers at last, but kept hold of Oriana’s wrist. “Stay,” she whispered. “Please.”

          Oriana nodded, and pulled back to undress. She questioned her motives as she worked at the buttons at the front of her stolen uniform; questioned what she was doing as her clothes fell to pool around her ankles. She stepped out of them and toed off her shoes, bending to remove her cotton stockings. She quickly untied her letter opener from her thigh, grateful the tall bed hid her from view as she did so. She wrapped it in the uniform, and then stood, completely naked, and when Queen Elisende beckoned for her, she crawled onto the rich, soft bed, and let the queen kiss her at last.

          Her lips were soft and full. They tasted of wine. She moaned when Queen Elisende’s tongue slipped into her mouth.

          “Oh, you darling…” said the queen, wrapping Oriana clumsily in her arms, pulling her close. Their skin met. Oriana buried her fingers in Queen Elisende’s hair. It was silky. “You kiss nicely…”

          “Where shall I kiss you?” Oriana asked.

          “Wherever you please.” She lay them back, so Oriana was astride her fur-covered waist. “I care not.”

          Oriana bent and kissed down the queen’s jaw, trailing her mouth to her neck, kissing a curving line across it, where she would have sliced. She nibbled and licked, and when Queen Elisende’s hips twitched against nothing, it sent a throb of need to her clitoris.

          She buried herself in her role. She kissed south, reaching the queen’s breasts, cupping them, kissing around them before taking her nipples into her mouth. The action rewarded her with a gasp, and blunt nails scraping over her back. Oriana teased them until she was certain they ached. She slid lower in the bed, Queen Elisende watching with want-filled eyes, her chest heaving.

          Oriana kissed over her soft stomach, licked a line across her hips. She slid the furs down and away from Queen Elisende’s legs. They were shapely, and covered in a fine down of light hair. Between them, her untamed curls were as gold as the hair on her head. Oriana glimpsed slick folds, immediately desiring to lean in and taste, but she began with the insides of Queen Elisende’s thighs instead, kissing gently, biting deeply, savouring the hands that found her hair and tugged.

          Before she reached the queen’s cunt properly, she asked breathlessly, “Tell me how to pleasure you.”

          A whimper escaped the queen’s mouth. “Touch me,” she whispered windlessly. “Please.”

          “Gently?”

          “Yes.”

          “Of course, my lady.”

          Oriana pressed kisses to Queen Elisende’s right thigh, soothing away the marks she’d put there moments ago. She raised her right hand and carded her fingers through rough curls, tugging lightly, teasing, and then she moved lower, index and middle finger parting two slick folds to run between them. They glided easily from entrance to clitoris, and back again. Queen Elisende’s hips moved desperately, and her begging words were slurred slightly.

          Oriana teased circles around her swollen clitoris to ground her, her own cunt clenching at Queen Elisende’s moans.

          “Do you want my mouth?” Oriana asked.

          The queen nodded, and breathed, “Fingers also.”

          Oriana planted one last kiss to Queen Elisende’s thigh, and she buried her face against her cunt, licking a slow line over the path her fingers had traced. She shared a moan with Queen Elisende. Even here, she tasted sweet, so unlike the other women Oriana had recently laid with, whose taste was saltier. She grasped plump thighs and began in earnest, using tongue and lips and teeth to her advantage, gauging which the queen liked better. She cried out when Oriana sucked her clitoris, or delved her tongue inside her; she did not seem to care for other ministrations.

          “Your fingers,” Queen Elisende gasped.

          Oriana pulled back to ask, “How many, my lady?” She was breathless herself. Her lips and chin were coated in essence. The throb between her thighs was a second heart.

          The queen answered, “Three.”

          Oriana bent, once more lavishing the queen’s clitoris with attention, and gently pressed two fingers inside. She crooked them, brushing against that rougher spot that made Queen Elisende throw her head back.

          “There, darling…” the queen said. “Oh…”

          In moments she got carried away, Oriana often reached for the polik unconsciously. She stroked and sucked, and moaned her own pleasure against Queen Elisende’s cunt, grinding against the furs beneath her, feeling the warmth of the polik fill her. She felt, too, the queen’s aura, felt her elation and the ebbing of her sadness, and how close she was to orgasm. Oriana added a third finger.

          Hands clenched in her hair. Thighs quaked on either side of her head. The queen’s body stiffened, tight as a drawn bow, and her breathing stuttered. Oriana felt her peak, and then her ecstasy.

          Queen Elisende came with cries, grinding desperately against Oriana’s face. Essence wet Oriana’s hand and wrist. The polik influenced how she experienced the queen’s orgasm, and within seconds, she followed suit, groaning, guiding Queen Elisende through her high as best as she was able.

          It passed, bathing them in a glow. Oriana shifted upward, resting her cheek just above the queen’s rough curls, gently removing her ruined fingers. She brought them to her mouth, and when they were clean, she grasped Queen Elisende’s hand, and closed off the polik at last.

          They rested for a while, breathing out of sync, Queen Elisende’s long fingers carding through Oriana’s hair. Such tenderness, to a stranger and an assassin, no less, turned Oriana’s stomach sour.

          “My lady,” said Oriana softly, moving so that she was lying next to the queen. She was immediately enveloped in an embrace, and Queen Elisende pressed her face against Oriana’s neck.

          “Hmm?”

          “I must confess my reason for entering your chamber.”

          “To fuck me tenderly,” said Queen Elisende, burying her face against the curve of Oriana’s shoulder with a heavy sigh. “Why else?” Fingertips traced the valley between her breasts, clumsy with drunken exhaustion.

          Oriana took that hand in both of hers. “I came here to kill you.”

          There was a long pause, and then Queen Elisende laughed. “You are quite funny.” She kissed Oriana’s neck. “You’ve killed me once.” Another kiss. “A second would truly do me in.”

          You sweet, drunken fool, Oriana thought, tightening her hold on Queen Elisende’s hand. “I do not mean it that way,” she said. “I… I was hired to take your life.”

          Queen Elisende hummed. “A juicy excuse.” She was falling asleep. “I do not believe it.” There was a long sigh. “Will you leave me…?”

          “No, my lady,” said Oriana quietly. “I shall stay the whole night long.”

          Queen Elisende’s breathing evened out, and within moments, she was asleep.

          Oriana released a shaky breath. She thought of the letter opener tangled in the stolen uniform. Thought of the plan that had almost immediately gone to shit. The faces of past victims emerged in the dark. They were the faces of people who were not innocent. The woman lying naked against her was only lost, and terribly sad. She was not an evil person. But there was a way to make certain.

          Carefully, Oriana placed one hand against the side of Queen Elisende’s head. She accessed the polik, filled with sudden warmth and renewed energy, and cast a spell of memory. She shut her eyes, the better to see the images floating into her mind. The queen’s childhood blurred by, her adolescent and early adult years. There was her mother’s passing, the funeral on a bitter winter day filled with heavy snowfall, and her own coronation. There was her wedding, many nights of intimacy with her husband, the day she learned she was pregnant, the birth of her daughter, where all the usual faces were present, but in this particular memory, there was a focus on a figure standing at the edge of the room, away from other guests. His face was hidden in shadow, but Oriana could tell he was tall, with rich robes the colour of sapphire. The memory shifted to the night Queen Elisende found her husband dead in the drawing room, and again to her daughter, only a child of eight, in her bathing chamber, her head completely removed from her body, the marble floor a lake of blood. And at both funerals, the tall man was there.

          Oriana released the spell and the polik, trembling now, and cold. She burrowed further beneath Queen Elisende’s furs, welcoming the warmth and the way the queen pulled her closer in her slumber.

          Who was the man? she wondered. Who would want to kill an innocent queen?

          The riddle, of course, would have to be answered at dawn.

Chapter Text

Oriana woke to movement, and then to the sound of vomiting.

            Half-asleep, she turned her head to the right, meeting the expanse of Queen Elisende’s naked back. She was leaning over the side of the bed, panting.

            The acrid scent of regurgitated alcohol stung Oriana’s nose. She cast a small blocking spell, and when Queen Elisende called, “Mathilde!” she settled back into the bed and feigned sleep.

            “Mathilde!” the queen called again. She was no longer drunk. The timbre of her voice was different; not the breathy, needy one from hours ago, but strong.

            The bedchamber door opened and in walked a short but stout handmaiden. She cast no glance at Oriana, long used to seeing her queen’s bed occupied by a lover, and went straight to Queen Elisende’s aid, grasping her hand, helping her to sit upright. “Slowly, my queen,” she said. “Let me draw you a bath.”

            “Be quick about it.”

            Yes, thought Oriana, feeling Queen Elisende rise from the bed, she is a different person when sober.

            She could not help but turn and take in this new curiosity.

            The bedchamber was awash in fine morning light, bathing Queen Elisende in its pleasantness. Her gold hair shone, as did the finer ones along her arms and legs. Her curves and softness were brought into sharp focus; Oriana lingered on the lines of her back, the fullness of her hips, buttocks, and thighs, the contours of her elbows and wrists and the shape of her hands. She studied until Mathilde returned, feigning sleep once again, remaining so while Mathilde cleaned away the vomit with strong soap and brushes, and while she helped her queen dress once she’d finished her bath.

            “Who is that woman?” Oriana heard Mathilde ask.

            “You are speaking out of place,” said Queen Elisende, almost sighing it.

            “Beg pardon, my queen.”

            There was a rustling of clothes, and then Queen Elisende dismissed the maid, ordering her to return in a half hour’s time.

            The door shut.

            “Are you sleeping, madam,” said the queen, “or are you jesting?”

            Slowly, Oriana rose, clutching the sheet and furs to her chest. “Jesting,” she replied.

            Blue eyes took her in, painfully alert compared to what they’d been. Then, “I expect you’ll want payment for your time here.”

            Oriana shook her head no. She asked, as carefully as she could manage, “May I borrow a robe?”

            Queen Elisende brought one from her bathing chamber and turned her back. When Oriana was decent, she turned again and said, “I realise I was quite inebriated last night, but what I also realise is I do not know your face. Who are you?”

            “If I tell you,” Oriana said, “you must not raise alarm.”

            The queen’s jaw tightened, but she nodded for continuation.

            “I am Oriana Dallis of the queendom of Balthea. I was hired to kill you.”

            Queen Elisende’s face paled visibly. She clutched one of her bed’s posters. “By whom?” she said. “Another queen? A king?”

            “A Mage.” Oriana continued, after Queen Elisende cursed, “I cannot reveal her name; she is a Sister.” She did not think it was possible for a face to become so pale while its owner was alive.

            “You are a Mage also?” asked Queen Elisende, voice quieter.

            “Yes.”

            “Prove it.”

            Oriana touched the polik and cast a small fire spell. Each candle in the room lit instantly, and then was smothered. Grey smoke drifted upward from the charred wicks.

            “Oh, Priestess,” Queen Elisende gasped. She sank to her knees. She scrambled for something beneath her bed—a chamber pot—and was sick into it. Oriana kept her distance until she was done. She cast a water spell and a summoning spell; a wet linen floated from the bathing chamber and into her hand. She offered it to the queen, who took it cautiously and cleaned her lips and chin.

            “If you were hired to kill me,” she said around elevating breathing, rising to standing once again, “why am I not dead?”

            “You stayed my hand,” Oriana replied.

            “Impossible.”

            “That is the truth of it.”

            “How could I manage such a thing?”

            “I felt your pain,” Oriana said.

            “When?”

            “Before you asked me into your bed.”

            Queen Elisende rubbed her temples. “You… You must have coerced me in my vulnerable state.”

            “No,” Oriana countered gently. “You begged me to stay.”

            “And you fucked me out of pity, is that it?”

            “I did so because I desired you.” The memory of Queen Elisende kissing her fingers made Oriana warm. She continued, stepping carefully toward the foot of the bed, where her discarded uniform lay on the floor, “I did not kill you because I learned the Sister who hired me was in the wrong.”

            “I don’t understand your meaning.”

            Oriana unravelled her letter opener from the uniform’s clutches. “You are an innocent woman. The Sister believes you are not. We do not kill the innocent.” She offered the letter opener to Queen Elisende hilt first. “I would have sliced your throat with this.”

            The queen did not touch it. She swallowed several times. “You are certain of my innocence,” she said, “despite knowing nothing about me.”

            “I know enough.”

            A knock sounded. Queen Elisende strode quickly to her chamber door, dismissing whoever was there. When she returned, she paced beside her writing desk, silent for several ticks, absorbing, pondering. Then, “The Mage who hired you will need proof of my death.”

            “Yes.”

            “How shall you acquire it?”

            “It is typically done with a piece of the body,” Oriana replied. “A lock of hair, or a finger.” She left out the more gruesome pieces. (Once, Master Philippa requested Oriana return with a king’s foot; another time, a noblewoman’s breast.)

            “Will she know you spared my life?” Queen Elisende asked.

            “My powers are extensive,” Oriana said. “She will think you dead.”

            Queen Elisende turned to her windows, silent, absorbing every word. Her hands shook when she braced them on the desk’s edges. If Oriana were to see her aura, she imagined she’d find panic.

            “Take my finger,” said the queen at length. “Take it back with you.”

            “I shall need nourishment before I do so,” Oriana admitted, a plan already forming. “I’ve not eaten since the early hours of your Festival.” She could take Queen Elisende’s finger and grow it back, but it would drain her. A Mage who delved in a field she had no complete mastery of was always drained after casting specific spells, sometimes to the point of death.

            Queen Elisende nodded. “All right.”

            She strode to her door, called for Mathilde, and requested breakfast, which would be delivered in fifteen ticks.

            While they waited, Queen Elisende fetched Oriana spare clothes and her letter opener, and allowed her to wash up in her bathing chamber. Oriana cleaned only her body. She used a spare brush to tidy her hair, plucking loose strands from the bristles. Oriana tied her letter opener onto her right thigh and donned the outfit—grey smallclothes, black wool trousers, thick cotton undershirt and thinner overshirt the colour of pale brown wheat, and grey wool socks.

            She re-emerged in Queen Elisende’s bedchamber, finding Queen Elisende occupying her vanity stool and breakfast waiting on a cleared corner of the desk: sweetcakes drizzled with honey, two bowls of oat porridge sprinkled with cinnamon, wheat bread bearing thin slices of ham and sheep cheese, and three cups of ale, one of which Queen Elisende already held.

            “Will this suffice?” she asked.

            “Yes,” answered Oriana. She gestured to the high-backed chair, sitting when given permission to occupy it.

            They ate and drank in silence. Oriana slowly felt her energy renewing and her mood improving throughout it. Only the queen remained relatively unchanged. Oriana’s heart smarted when Queen Elisende drained her first cup of ale and appeared less tense.

            “Do… targets often go to bed with the Mages who kill them?” she asked. “Or eat with them?”

            Oriana could not lie to her. “Yes.” She cleared her throat, took a sip of ale. “We are encouraged to kill at the most vulnerable moment. For some that is at mealtime. For others it is at the height of orgasm.” She added, after a tick, “Not every Sister follows these guidelines.”

            “I’ve heard tales of harshness.” Queen Elisende reached for her second cup of ale. Her high cheeks coloured with a blush, and she did not look at Oriana when she said, “Some… memory has returned to me from last night. You are not a harsh woman.”

            The words stung. Oriana said around her cup, “You do not know me.”

            “I believe I know enough.”

            There was nothing Oriana could say. Her tongue turned to iron inside her mouth.

            They finished their breakfast, plates scraped clean. Queen Elisende asked, “How do you feel?”

            “Well enough,” replied Oriana. “Are you prepared?”

            The queen downed the rest of her ale in a single gulp, then nodded.

            “Lie back down,” Oriana instructed. “Will we be disturbed?”

            “Not for two hours.”

            The procedure would take most of that time.

            Oriana made certain the bedchamber door was shut and locked. She cast a muffling spell, in case curious ears pressed themselves to the wood. She checked everything over, and by the time she turned to see Queen Elisende lying on her bed, the plan was finalised.

            Oriana drew the vanity stool to the side of the bed and sat.

            “How will you go about this?” Queen Elisende asked. Her breathing was quicker with nervousness, and her fair cheeks and neck were rosy.

            “First I shall put you to sleep,” Oriana replied calmly. “Then I will mute your nerves. You’ll feel no pain when I remove your finger.”

            The queen swallowed. “And then…?”

            “And then I will grow it back.”

            “That seems… an impossible task.”

            “The focus of my power lies in tricks of the mind. This venture will drain me, but it will not kill me.” Before she could think to stop herself, Oriana said, “I’ll be most delicate with you.” Queen Elisende’s only reaction was a slight softening of her expression. “Are you ready?”

            The queen took several deep but shaky breaths. Then, softly, “Yes.”

            Oriana reached for the polik, gathering as much as she could. It filled her from head to toe, a warm and breathing organism. With this much swimming through her, Oriana’s senses were heightened. She smelled the salt and sweetness emanating from Queen Elisende, the faint traces of the soap Mathilde had used to clean the vomit from the floor. She heard their heartbeats: the queen’s rabbity, her own a steady thump.

            She spread her right hand over Queen Elisende’s face and cast a spell of deep sleep. The queen fell quickly. In a few ticks, her heart slowed, and she was dreaming.

            Muting the nerves was the harder task. If this was to go smoothly, Oriana would have to quiet every single one. She reached out slowly with the polik, letting it take its time in finding the nerves, settling over them like blankets, preventing their communication with the brain. It took nearly sixty ticks to complete. Oriana felt only a small drain in her energy, but she rested nonetheless, breathing deeply, seeking exactly where she would sever Queen Elisende’s left index finger.

            She’d remove it below the first knuckle. To present Master Philippa with only half a finger was cause for the assassination to be considered botched. Before now, Oriana would never have considered cursing a Master she’d held in high esteem for nearly two decades. As she prepared to cast a complicated severing spell, a litany of curses filled her mind, each one harsher than the last.

            With a final breath, Oriana cast the spell. She used it slowly, watching as a thin line appeared below Queen Elisende’s first knuckle. Blood welled instantly, stark red against fair skin, pooling to the surface before sliding downwards in a rivulet, where it met the white sheet was immediately embraced by the woven cotton. The deeper Oriana delved, the more blood appeared. She met bone and slowed further, sweating now, her head beginning to ache from the intensity of her concentration on ensuring the slice was clean. It was, and she continued despite the heavy flow of blood, until the finger was free. The second it fell to the sheets, she cast a bonding spell, stopping the blood flow. She released the polik to breathe, and then gathered what remained of it, casting spells of healing and regrowth.

            Bone grew first, and then muscle and veins and capillaries and nerves, and lastly, layers of tissue and skin, until the new finger looked just like the old one. Oriana had only seconds to cast a waking spell before the flow of polik abruptly stopped, and she fell from the stool in exhaustion.

            It had taken eighty-four ticks to complete.

            She was covered in sweat and panting harshly. She felt as if she’d run for hours, or duelled a Master in the Practitioner Trials.

            It took three ticks for Queen Elisende to wake. Oriana watched as she sat up, first gazing at her hand, and then at the spread of blood and the finger resting at the edge of the bed. Her face paled.

            She gagged and threw herself from her bed, reaching her chamber pot in time.

            “Fucking Priestess,” she breathed, shuddering. “Fuck…” When she could stand, she departed for her bathing chamber. Oriana heard her rinsing her mouth. Afterward, she walked quickly to her bedchamber door, wrenched it open, and called for a bottle of wine.

            After it arrived, she pulled the cork and drank deeply, and then she knelt and offered some to Oriana, saying, “You have as much need of it as I do.”

            Her words were convincing enough.

            Oriana drank, swallowed, and drank again.

            It took twenty ticks in all to feel any return of energy. She sat slowly up and instructed Queen Elisende to find a square cloth of velvet and a small wooden box. The queen obeyed, searching with wine bottle in hand, gulping from it every few ticks. She found a cloth of velvet and a tabac box. She lined its bottom with the cloth.

            “Place the finger inside,” Oriana said.

            The queen did so. She shut the lid quickly, drank a heavy sip from the bottle, and offered her hand, helping Oriana up.

            Oriana sat in the chair she’d occupied during breakfast. One glance out the window told Oriana it was nearly after noon. The landscape was green and grey with rain; droplets pelted the window and slid down the latticed glass like tears.

            Queen Elisende’s shifting caught Oriana’s attention. The colour had returned to her face. She clutched the neck of the wine bottle in a tight grip.

            The queen said, “I will permit you to take luncheon with me, Oriana Dallis, but afterward, I expect you to leave.”

            Oriana nodded.

            “You will utter no word of what was done last night. Not to anyone. And you will say nothing of my… begging.”

            She remembers some, then. “Yes, my lady,” Oriana said. The title was met with no sign of distaste.

            “I do not appreciate your… delving into my emotional state, either, but I suppose when one is a Mage, they have no choice.” Queen Elisende met Oriana’s gaze and said, with earnest, “Thank you.”

            It took Oriana by surprise. “Why do you thank me?”

            “You felt my pain and you have not once called me weak.”

            “Grieving loss is not a sign of weakness,” Oriana said. “It is love that is trapped. It has no one to accept it, and so it festers.”

            Queen Elisende drank more wine. A crease appeared between her golden brows; Oriana imagined kissing it away. The queen said, quietly, “You are a strange assassin. You talk of loss in such a familiar way, and yet you are often the cause of it.”

            “I am a person,” Oriana stated gently, “just like everyone else in this World. My choice of profession does not change that.”

            There was nothing left to say, except for Queen Elisende’s, “Let us go down.”

            She left the wine on her writing desk, and Oriana fetched the finger box, tucking it into her trouser pocket.

            They took the route Oriana had travelled last night, but instead of going to the White Hall, they passed it, turned left, walked down a corridor lined with portraits of kings and queens in varying styles of finery, and turned right, into a large but quaint dining room. Like Queen Elisende’s bedchamber, it was also panelled with oiled wood, but it was stained lighter, giving the room a bright, cosy feel. The window at the back of the room was large, revealing more of the grey, rainy afternoon, as well as acres of rolling hills and, in the distance, the Grinwell Mountains, whose peaks looked as if a baker had dusted them with confectioner’s sugar.

            A lit chandelier dangled above the long mahogany table, casting golden light. Each place was set with fine but plain dishes.

            “Sit where you like,” said Queen Elisende.

            Oriana chose the middle chair by the window, where each exit was clearly visible. The queen sat across from her.

            Two servants, an older man and woman, entered from a set of small doors to Oriana’s right.

            Queen Elisende said, when they paused a few feet from the table, “We’ll begin with a bottle of peregrine wine.”

            “Certainly, my queen,” said the woman. “What else?”

            “Braised beef with holeth herbs and honey, goat’s butter rolls, and roasted greens.”

            The man cleared his throat. “We were saving the beef for supper, my queen.”

            “I’d prefer it now, Valence. Lady Oriana has a long journey and I should hate to hear news of her sudden collapse.”

            Valence bowed from the waist and left promptly, the woman on his heels.

            Queen Elisende propped her elbows onto the table and massaged her temples with index and middle finger.

            Oriana said at length, “It’s a lovely room.”

            “I bear no feeling toward it,” the queen responded. “I am only glad it’s private.”

            “Do you dine often here?”

            “Often alone.”

            Valence returned with the bottle of peregrine wine, pouring Queen Elisende’s into a large goblet and Oriana’s into a smaller one. Not long after his second departure, the woman returned with platters, setting each one carefully between Oriana and the queen.

            “Thank you, Beatrice, that will be all,” said Queen Elisende.

            Like breakfast, luncheon was a quiet affair also, filled with the scrape and tap of cutlery. Queen Elisende drank through it all, becoming less refined by the minute. Oriana wondered, as she watched her cut clumsily into her last hunk of beef, what she was like before she lost the people closest to her. Tall and proud, she supposed, and impossibly radiant. She was beautiful even now, but what light she’d held before had clearly dimmed.

            It was not pity, then, that made her chest ache.

            Queen Elisende pushed her plate away after another ten ticks. She plucked the peregrine wine and made to pour herself more; she tipped the bottle too quickly, spilling its sweet, red contents onto the white runner. Her string of curses was slightly slurred.

            Oriana stood. “Allow me,” she said, stomach souring at pouring a drunk another few measures of wine.

            “Many thanks,” Queen Elisende said. Her cheeks were rosy. She brought her goblet slowly to her lips and drank deeply, muffling a hiccup against her free hand. She asked, “Are you finished?”

            “Yes,” replied Oriana, though her plate still bore food, and her goblet was half empty.

            “I shall walk you out.”

            “There’s no need.” Oriana rose quickly. “I can manage.”

            “I would like to take the air.”

            Oriana objected no farther.

            She allowed Queen Elisende to lead. She did not, as Oriana expected, guide her to the front entrance; they paused at the back of the castle, where she unlocked a seldom-used door. Outside of it, there was a gravel path. Grass was slowly taking it over. It curved to the right and eventually disappeared into the hills. A breeze blew cold raindrops onto them.

            “Did you come by the High Citadel?” Queen Elisende asked.

            “Yes. I have a room at the Emerald Inn,” Oriana replied.

            There was a touch of surprising sobriety in the queen’s voice when she instructed, “Follow this path. It will take you to the Holly Road, then the Lorven Road. The Tower Guards will not see you.”

            Oriana nodded, too stunned to speak. Cold air wafted around them, blowing strands of Queen Elisende’s hair away from her neck. And to think, Oriana pondered, I kissed her there only hours ago…

            Queen Elisende swallowed thickly. “Please,” she whispered, “do not return.”

            “I won’t, my lady,” Oriana said. “You have my word.”

…

The Masters’ Tower was cold, as if the windows had been closed and the fires lit a mere tick before Oriana arrived. She pulled her golden robes tighter about herself, stuffing her hands into the warmth of her underarms. It was strictly forbidden for a Mage that was not a Master to cast spells in the tower, even if they were as simple as warming or cooling spells. Such a thing was deemed a threat, and the Mage would face expulsion without trial. Oriana savoured what little heat she could feel from the fires as she strode down the corridor to the Masters’ Quarters.

            Outside Master Philippa’s doors—which were two massive slabs of oiled cherry wood with carvings of meditating Mages around their borders— were her usual guards, Olivia and Bonny. They stiffened at Oriana’s approach.

            “You must wait ten ticks, Sister,” said Olivia.

            “As you say,” Oriana said, and moved to linger by a nearby fire.

            Her gut was a knot of wriggling worms. Master Philippa was one of the most powerful Mages in Balthea; any spell a Sister cast, whether it was upon an object or herself, no matter how tightly woven or carefully applied, she’d unravel and leave in strips. Oriana worried she’d Examine the finger and find a trace of the spell of deep sleep, or a trace of a true memory. Yet as Oriana gazed into the depths of the crackling flames and steadied herself, she was reminded that Master Philippa told her, more than once, that she was a very gifted Mage; that her spells were so perfect they took a much longer time to unravel.

            She will not find out, Oriana repeated. She cannot.

            “Sister Oriana,” said Bonny, wrenching her from her thoughts. “She will see you now.”

            “Thank you.”

            Olivia and Bonny stepped aside.

            Oriana turned the brass doorhandles.

            Like the rest of the Masters’ Tower, this room was also carved of pale brown marble, shaped to smoothness and lustre by polik alone. It bore neither hangings nor tapestries, but on the western wall, above a glowing hearth, was a display of each robe Master Philippa had worn before she became a Master: black, then red, then green, then gold. She now wore the white.

            There was more plant life scattered about the room, many that Oriana did not recognise, but some she did. They’d been hanging since she’d first arrived in Balthea some seventeen years prior. They gave off a sweet smell that mingled with the smoke of the fire and the rich scent of tabac floating from Master Philippa’s writing desk.

            The woman in question was sitting back in her chair, smoking a pipe whose tabac leaves were from a region Oriana was no longer familiar with. Master Philippa’s silver-streaked mane of auburn curls tumbled over the chair’s back. Her eyes were closed, and her white robe looked as if it had been tied in place only a few ticks ago.

            Oriana hovered by the doors, right hand clasping left wrist, a stance instilled from her years as an Apprentice.

            Master Philippa exhaled a long line of smoke. “This,” she said, her alto voice smooth despite this hobby, “was a gift from Queen Alison of Pravia.” Ah, there was that elusive region. “Hellish to cultivate, even in the right climate, and very expensive to import.” She took one last drag and extinguished the pipe with a graceful wave of her hand. “I suppose she sent it as a thank you for accepting her daughter.”

            “Sister Vivian, if I remember rightly,” Oriana said.

            “Yes.” Master Philippa straightened. “Timid little thing, but we shall drill that right out.” She swivelled her chair toward Oriana and beckoned her to sit on the plush vanity stool. Her green eyes were bright. “Can I fetch you anything, Oriana?” she asked.

            “No,” Oriana replied, “but thank you.”

            “Let us gaze upon your success, then.”

            Oriana loosened her gold robe just enough to draw the finger box from its breast pocket. She passed it cautiously to Master Philippa, who accepted it and breathed deeply, fair fingertips skimming the smooth wood.

            She opened the lid.

            Queen Elisende’s finger sat cushioned in velvet, pretty as a marriage ring, if one were fond of gruesome bonds.

            “It is very finely preserved,” Master Philippa remarked, hovering a hand over the box. A hum filled the room; it was the kind that emerged when a fellow Mage accessed the polik. She commented praise on the use of the severing spell, and the traces of the impurity ones Oriana had cast before she left the Emerald Inn.

            Oriana did not relax at the praise.

            Eventually, Master Philippa set the finger box aside. She stood from her chair, pushing the sleeves of her white robe up to her elbows. The hum grew louder.

            “Show me the scene,” she said.

            Oriana braced herself on the stool, hoping to the gods she appeared composed. Her heart crawled into her throat when Master Philippa’s hands, soft and warm, cupped her face. The gesture was almost tender.

            “You have not Altered the memory in any way?” she asked.

            “No, Master Philippa,” Oriana answered.

            But it was custom to make certain.

            An hour before this meeting, Oriana had disappeared to the Sacred Fountain, an underground spring just outside the Mage’s Quarters. Its purpose was meditation and healing, and also to bond with the polik. Not long after Oriana was given the rank of Practitioner and a red robe, she discovered the water could be used to hide. Over the course of ten years, she channelled both feelings and information into the hot water, secrets that would raise hackles and be the subjects of scandal, and the polik embraced them, held them, all without detection. It was there she had hidden the true memories of the night with Queen Elisende and replaced them with Altered versions.

            A coldness filled her when Master Philippa cast a spell of memory. The images floated between them, visible to both parties: Oriana’s boredom in the White Hall, walking past Queen Elisende’s table, the dark-haired Pleasure Worker taking her discretely aside to tell her the queen desired her; entering the queen’s bedchamber and finding her asleep, tripping on the rug, rousing her, where Oriana found her drunk and naked and beautiful—the moment the furs fell from her shoulders, a small smile tugged at Master Philippa’s lips. There was a brief conversation, a tentative kiss, undressing on Oriana’s part, climbing onto the bed and pressing Queen Elisende into it, kissing her lips and neck and breasts, fingers teasing her slick cunt until she begged for Oriana’s mouth; Oriana sliding south to settle herself between the queen’s open thighs, where she stayed until Queen Elisende climaxed, where Oriana cast a slicing spell and opened the queen’s throat.

            Oriana watched her bleed out onto her white pillows, wiping sweet essence from her lips and chin.

            Once the queen was dead, Oriana took her finger.

            Master Philippa released the spell and the polik, collapsing heavily against her chair. She and Oriana panted—Master Philippa from the thrill of death, Oriana from exhaustion. She trembled openly; her limbs and the edges of her face and neck were slick with cold sweat. She longed for a cup of water but dared not ask.

            “You ought to be proud of yourself, Oriana,” said Master Philippa after several ticks, much of her former composure regained. “It was flawlessly done.” She smiled, showing her white, misaligned teeth. Oriana had once thought that smile beautiful. Now it only seemed false. “I’m pleased beyond measure to tell you your spells bear the quality of a Master’s.”

            Ice washed over Oriana. “Begging your pardon?” she said softly, stunned.

            Master Philippa laughed. “It was a test, dear Oriana!” she said, reaching for her pipe once again and lighting it, speaking around it, “How else would I convince the other Masters you are more than fit to be among our ranks?”