The Assassin's Redemption Chapter 4 Part 1

The sun had just peaked over the horizon when Dracon woke. The Assassin’s Tower was crisp and chilly in the morning air, and he dressed quickly, throwing the black cotton outfit on again, minding not to rub his hurt arm. It was cold now, but Dracon knew from experience that it would be blistering by noon.

He glanced in the mirror of his apartment. The room was bigger than most in the Tower, given to him by Ramar as an honor of his rank. It was well furnished- large bed, couch, desk, mirror, table, and dresser. Blue curtains hung over closed windows. Everything was organized and in its own place; no trash littered the floor and no books piled the desk.

Dracon fussed with his clothing, straightening the wrinkles in his tunic. The First Lieutenant wasn’t suppose to look like he just rolled out of bed, despite Dracon’s lack of enthusiasm in all things relating to appearance. His green eyes stared back at him as he ran his fingers threw his hair, smoothing out the tangles.

Like lightning, last night came back to him, appearing in flashes through his mind. The rebel, Ramar, the boy, Mistress Helen. As if to make sure he got the point, Dracon’s arm started throbbing through the bandages. He didn’t understand how he’d managed to forget about it for so long.

He exited his room quickly, moving down the hall to the stairs; he took them two at a time. The Tower looked a lot like the Healer’s Tower, composed of mostly stairs, rooms placed sporadically on different floors. Dracon’s apartment was on the top floor, along with Katric’s, Ramar’s, and the Meeting Room.

Dracon didn’t slow when he reached the bottom floor. He sprinted out the doorway and into the keep. Realizing his haste, Dracon slowed to a brisk walk. It wouldn’t be good for people to see the First Lieutenant running around the castle like a child, he thought as he passed one of the many gardens, the plants dotted with ice crystals frozen from the morning dew. He sped through the remaining distance, arriving at the Healer’s Tower.

The infirmary was much like it had been the night before, except now light was pouring in through windows, one slightly opened. Mistress Helen had made another fire and it lay under the fireplace, warding off the chill. A pot hung above the flames, and Helen stood beside it with her back to the door, stirring the contents with a wooden spoon and occasionally tossing in some herb. The Hopeful lay in the same bed, either unconscious or simply sleeping, Dracon couldn’t tell. But, seeing as the boy was as pale as snow, he was leaning towards unconsciousness. The boy's brown hair was tussled into a mess and every single bruise and cut he had from the day before seemed to be ten times darker, accented by the whiteness of his body.

“Mistress Helen?” Dracon said, announcing his presence. The Healer jumped, spinning mid-air to look at the man, one hand clutch at her heart and the other holding the spoon like a sword.

“Oh, Master Dracon. You scared me. Don’t you know better than to sneak up on an old woman like that?” she said, trying to regain her composure. Her startled expression evaporated, and her hands fell to her sides, though her chest still heaved quickly.

“I sorry. I just wanted to see how the boy was.”

“Well, he made it through the night, tough young man. He even woke up once. It may be to so to say, but I think he’ll make it,” Helen said, placing the spoon back into the pot.

“Did he say anything?”

“He says his names Kanen. Oh, and he kept asking about the man who got hurt.”

“That would be Ramar. How is he, by the way? I haven’t seen him this morning,” Dracon asked.

“I wouldn’t know. He never showed.”

“What?”

“Nope.”

Dracon puzzled over that for a moment. Why wouldn’t he come to see her? That cut on his leg was deep. He’d have to ha…

A strong wind hit the cracked window, blowing it open all the way and knocking it against the wall. The sound shook Dracon from his thoughts and the breeze blew the smell to him. It was putrid, almost like rotten eggs, making Dracon’s eyes water and stomach twist. It took all of his control to keep his face straight. Its origin could come from only one place, the pot.

“I pity the man who has to take that medicine,” he said to Helen. Her brow furrowed for a moment, and she followed his eyes to the pot.

“Oh, that? That’s my breakfast. It’s Mucktim soup, my mother’s recipe. Would you like some? It’s almost done, and I should have an extra bowl…” She started for the cupboards.

“No!” he said before she had moved more than a few feet. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

“Ok then,” she said, placing the lid on to the pot for it to simmer. “Now, I think you’d better let me check your arm.”

Dracon now knew from experience that it was pointless to resist. He sank quickly on to a bed and rolled up his sleeve, exposing the layer of bandages that lay underneath. Helen crossed to the bed, her nimble fingers quickly pulling back the bandages and exposing the stitched up arrow hole.

The wound was a bright red, black stitches crisscrossing both sides of his arm. According to Helen, Dracon had been lucky. The arrow had missed both major arteries and muscles. It would take a few weeks, and there would be scarring, but everything should heal up fine.

“This’ll help with the pain, and it should keep it from getting infected.” Helen rubbed a cooling green salve up and down his arm. The heat that had been searing his arm since he’d woke seemed to cool within seconds.

There was a knock on the battered door. Helen moved to answer it, but before she could, the door swung open and a servant stepped in. He wore the uniform of a house servant; a dark navy tunic with the falcon insignia of the King embroidered on the chest.

“Excuse me for the interruption, but King Jairon has requested a meeting with Master Dracon immediately.” He sped through speaking quickly, his eyes never leaving the ground.

“You can tell the King that he can have his Assassin as soon as I’m done with him,” Helen said, not looking up from her work. The servant stood there, shock appearing on his face. “You can go now.” He bowed awkwardly and left the room.

I can’t imagine having to deliver that message to the King. My prayers go with you.

“You would say that to the King? You know he’s not use to having to wait.”

“I have found that when you’re good at what you do, you can get away with just about anything. The King needs me. He found that out the first time I cured his cold with Malmor root. He can’t get rid of me,” she said, never once looking up.

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