The Assassin’s Bride: A Fantasy Romance Tale (Artisan Magic Book 1)

Gil was angry.

Thea didn’t know what she’d done to stoke those coals, but she couldn’t deny the anger that visibly smoldered within him. Maybe it hadn’t been her. Maybe something had happened in the brief time they’d been separated. Or maybe she truly had taken too long, frittered away valuable time, robbed him of something that couldn’t be replaced.

The realization that she knew so little about his mission had never been so stark. She didn’t know what timeline he ran on, didn’t know how easily it could be jeopardized. So when they reached the room at the inn, she put her head down and sat on the floor with the trousers she’d started and not yet finished.

Even with the two lanterns and several candles he’d scrounged from somewhere, she found it difficult to see. Her tiny stitches disappeared into the dark brown fabric she’d selected. She tried to keep them steady anyway. Even if her stitches were shaky, they’d be strong, and if a few went wayward, it wouldn’t harm the integrity of the clothing she made. But she wondered what it would do to the magic.

Focusing on the needle was difficult. She should have been refreshed after a bit of fun in the village, reassured after seeing there would be niches for her work to fill and ensure she’d have a good life after they reached Danesse and she had a chance to settle. Yet her thoughts kept drifting back to the steel she’d seen in Gil’s eyes and the way she’d seen through the illusion the cloak draped over him. It shouldn’t have been so transparent. She’d have to check the seams on his cloak next, ensure nothing had come loose. Even a damaged garment would retain its magic, but breaking threads did make it weaker.

His shadow passed over her as he paced the room. She tried not to flinch. He paced like a trapped predator, back and forth across the room. Each step was silent, solidifying the mental image. She’d seen pelts from great cats found farther south, where dense jungles demanded stealthy hunters. That he was dressed in black solidified it more.

When she finished one long seam, she put down her work. “May I see your cloak?”

Gil paused mid-stride. He said nothing, but she saw the question in the way he looked at her.

“I’d like to check something. To be sure the illusions work well together.” It wasn’t entirely untrue. They were supposed to build upon each other, but they had to be similar enough that his appearance wouldn’t change when a single piece was removed. His cloak, his shirt, the trousers on her lap, they’d all build the same image.

His hand drifted to the clasp and the cloak slid from his shoulders a moment later. The false image she’d crafted fell away like dust as he held out the cloak for her to take.

She accepted it without comment. His demeanor did not welcome conversation. Her brother had been the same way. Whenever Ashvin grew angry or frustrated, he grew solemn, and an unwelcoming shadow followed his every step. It was one of few things about him she didn’t miss.

The green cloth was easier to see by lantern light and it didn’t take long to check all the seams. Everything was intact, as perfect as when the project left her hands. It had to be something else, then. Some other reason for reality to bleed through the illusion. Admittedly, she knew little about that sort of magic. Forbidden as it was, the power used to weave glamours into garments still held plenty of secrets.

Satisfied by the durability of her work and unsatisfied by lack of answers, she focused on tracing the seams with her fingers and replicating the image she’d created.

Above her, Gil still paced.

It was easier to look at him now. For some reason, she found his true face less threatening; perhaps because it was easier to picture how he’d look when he smiled. Thea glanced his way as he crossed in front of the lanterns yet again. The silence had grown troubling. His voice would be a comfort. “How far is it to Danesse?”

He paused near the door. “Ranor is small. If we encounter no issues, we’ll be there in two days.”

“That bodes well for easy trade. The roadways are clear and simple, then?” She tried to smile, but still took the sense he was angry. Maybe if she redirected his thoughts from whatever made him pace like that, he’d relax.

“Simple, and there’s little to see in Ranor. Nothing but fields for the sheep and orchards full of pear trees between here and the capital.” He lingered where he was, though he regarded the door with suspicion. It seemed unlikely that anyone might eavesdrop on two simple travelers, but anything was possible.

Thea made a soft humming sound. “Are your boots sheepskin, then? They look thicker than that.”

“Cowhide. The eastern portions of the country are flatter, better suited to letting cattle range. Not in the numbers you’d see in Kentoria, of course. The Ranorsh favor sheep and goats, which are easier to keep on the hills.”

“And pears. An odd assortment of things to keep.” Goats and sheep meant quality wool would be easy to come by, though.

“Agriculture is one of the things I know little about. But I do know pears favor cool and wet climates. You’ll have to try the perry. It’s one of their finer exports, and one of few that are welcomed in Kentoria. A good quality drink.” He laced his hands together behind his back as he spoke, lending him a businesslike air.

It was better than the pacing. Thea let herself relax.“Is that so? You don’t strike me as a drinker.”

“I am not, save when social situations demand it. Substances that dull the senses are unwelcome in my profession.”

“I would imagine so.”

After that, Gil had nothing to say, but he eventually slipped past her to settle on the edge of the bed. She was glad to see him sit, though she wouldn’t say it. Without him crossing between her and the light, it was a little easier to see, and without him looming, it was easier to concentrate on her work.

The silence that followed was more companionable. Thea looked over her shoulder once to see him sitting with his elbows on his knees and his mouth resting against his clasped hands, his eyes closed. Thinking, or maybe meditating. As long as he rested, she liked it. That they were once again in a room that sported one bed had not escaped her notice, but she didn’t doubt he’d take the floor as soon as she finished her work.

Inch by inch, she worked her way down the long seams for his legs. She put power there, magic to lend endurance and keep him sure-footed. The reinforced knees promised strength and stability. She added loops to hold the straps for his dagger sheaths secure, and deep pockets, just because. Every step of the way, she layered in illusions. It proved a challenge; the illusions on the cloak were sewn into curves, but pants provided only two. Instead, she worked elements of her existing design into any place they would fit. The long seams gave rise to the ordinary looks she’d created; the pockets were meant to store secrets. The front closure, too, though she smirked as she pushed magic into the stitches there. The memory of his laugh when they’d discussed that before warmed her heart.

Last of all, she hemmed the cuffs. They folded twice, sturdy and neat, and the near-invisible stitches she used to fasten them in place let her work in more elements of what should be left unseen.

When the last stitch was in place and the thread knotted and cut, Thea sat back and closed her eyes. She didn’t know what time it was, but it had to be late. Her neck and shoulders ached in ways they hadn’t in ages and she lifted a hand to rub one of the stiffest spots. There was still the shirt to go.

Strong fingers slid across her shoulder, displacing her hand. She started to question, but Gil pressed into the aching muscle and yielded a groan instead. He shifted to sit behind her, his powerful hands working into each tender pressure point in her back.

“You’ve done well,” he said.

The simple praise sent a small thrum of delight through her, but she couldn’t revel in it now. “Shirts are fast. It shouldn’t take long. I’ll make something simple, so the fit won’t matter as much.”

“How many hours?”

The question betrayed an urgency he hadn’t expressed before. Something had changed. News he’d heard while checking in? Or had the festival’s presence driven home just how far behind they were?

“I don’t know. A few. I can finish by morning.” Or, she thought she could. She didn’t know how far off morning was.

His face turned toward the shuttered window as he considered. Did he know the time? His expression told her nothing. “I don’t think we will have time on the road.” The statement was soft, apologetic.

She understood. “Or the light.”

“Or the light,” he agreed. “But I’ll need buttons up the front.”

And buttonholes took time. Maybe she could speed up the process by using loops instead. “What for?”

“Peeling off a tunic overhead after sustaining an injury is remarkably inconvenient, and uncomfortable, as well. My shirts always button.” He touched his chest, drawing her attention to their presence.

Thea was surprised she’d never noticed. Button-front shirts were not popular in Kentoria and had not been for some time. But then, his boots were Ranorsh, and she’d asked questions about those. Maybe she’d seen the style and unconsciously decided it wasn’t important. “Buttons,” she said with a nod. “I’ll need to fit you for it when it’s partway done.”

“Whatever you need.”

What she needed was rest and a good night’s sleep, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. She pulled a piece of dark fabric from the sewing basket to check its size. She’d packed more than necessary, unsure what else would be needed. The first piece was too small. She chose another, this one a soft cream. Ordinary, befitting the disguise she was meant to make. The dark colors he wore were flattering, but they stood out. “I wish I had a good gray,” she said as she spread the cloth on the floor and took her scissors, chalk, and measuring tape from the basket. “It would suit your eyes.”

“No one will see my eyes when I’m wearing it,” he said.

Thea pursed her lips. “That’s true. Stand, let me take measurements for this.”

He rose and spread his arms.

“You’ve had things custom made before,” She said as she fitted the tape across his shoulders.

“What makes you think that?”

“Just an observation. You know how to move.” She worked out the shape of the pattern blocks in her head as she noted each number.

“I have had practice.” He turned appropriately for her to measure the length of his spine and the width of his sleeve. “I don’t know that I’ve ever worn anything that wasn’t made for me.”

Thea motioned for him to rotate in place so she could draw the tape around his chest. “The king outfitted you well.”

“Kentoria did. The king wanted little to do with me, aside from choosing for me to exist.”

“And then you killed him.” She raised a brow as if to ask him to elaborate.

He offered a tight smile in return. “Not that king.”

Of course. Gil told her he’d been trained young. That meant Garren Rothalan had to have occupied the throne when he received his first assignments and the equipment to go with them. “The old king, then.” It was strange; no one had called him that when he still ruled. It was only after his death that his age became relevant. None of his sons had been given the opportunity to age.

None that she’d known.

The few secrets Gil shared about his mission floated through her mind, mingling with the numbers she needed to remember. She tried to chase them away, but they wouldn’t go. Somewhere out there, a king remained. What would change when Gil found him? How did he know where to look? Maybe that was part of what distressed him. If a meeting with his contact had been delayed, and that meeting had been arranged before she was in the picture, maybe it meant they risked losing vital information. If that was the case, she’d just have to sew faster.

“He was a capable ruler, if not a kind man. But his eldest, Calem… Calem would have been a great king.” Gil’s eyes grew wistful as he spoke and Thea looked at him in surprise.

“You knew him?” she asked.

“I knew all of them. But Calem was my friend.”

Thea’s hands grew still. There was such weight in his words that her own heart sank. “I’m sorry. The plague took my mother, too.”

His brows knit and he closed his eyes. “It was not the plague.”

This time, her pause was not from sympathy. Everyone had mourned that tragedy. Garren Rothalan’s eldest son had ruled no more than five months before illness swept Kentoria. The magic-fueled apothecaries couldn’t work fast enough; many had been lost. The newly-crowned Calem Rothalan had been one of them. She couldn’t help her frown. “What?”

“Poison.” When he looked at her again, layers of loss and anger shone beneath the shadows in his eyes.

Thea’s pulse sped. “Word from the palace said—”

“Aleron thought it best if the truth wasn’t known,” Gil said. “The plague was a time of fear for Kentoria. They did not need more. He was not ready to take his brother’s throne, and the losses of the plague offered time for his grief. Time to prepare himself for the role he didn’t expect he’d take. He sent me to find whoever killed Calem. I found nothing.” Frustration edged his voice.

“Aleron ruled almost a year.” She made herself focus on taking remaining measurements, then knelt to mark them on the fabric. She’d only brought a light colored chalk and it hardly showed against the pale cloth. “Did you look for all that time?”

“I’ve never stopped looking.”

Thea didn’t know what to say. She opted for simple repetition. “I’m sorry.”

Half of her was tempted to ask about the others. She still didn’t know who lived, but she wasn’t sure she should push. Gil offered information on his own terms, and she’d only just coaxed him from his dour mood.

The longer she considered, the less important the question seemed. She’d seen Gaius killed and he’d confirmed the death of Calem, so only two options remained. Aleron had been a gentle ruler, hesitant in his choices but sure once he made them. Lucan, the king before Gaius, had been impulsive by comparison, but most had agreed he tried to make decisions with Kentoria’s best interest at heart. Thea was less charitable. Lucan’s orders had led to her brother’s demise.

Still, while Thea hoped Aleron was the king Gil sought, anyone would be better than Gaius. After his brothers, Gaius had been a monster, a single-minded fury that cared nothing for his people and focused all his strength on the development of guard and military forces. With how powerful Kentoria already was, it had left everyone wondering whether he feared attack, or if he planned one of his own.

A new thought crawled through the back of her head and she bit her lip. Maybe he had reason to fear. “Did he know you were coming?”

Gil cocked his head to the side. “What?”

“King Gaius. Did he know?” Perhaps that was why he’d bolstered the guard.

“If he didn’t, he was a fool.” He nudged her scissors closer with his boot. “But I’ve distracted you enough. Continue. By your leave, I’ll rest while I am able.”

“Suit yourself,” she murmured. She wasn’t ready to give up conversation, but she’d get no more out of him now. Still, a new sort of hope flickered inside her as she cut the fabric and settled to sew. By Gil’s estimate, there were still two days of travel left. She would have her answers by then. If Aleron still lived, the kinder of the kings and the king she had first petitioned for help, perhaps she could someday go home.