Prologue - The Immortal's Assassin

Her slender legs were still draped over the side of the bath, drying in the wind of the open window. I stopped for a moment to admire her, the way the water trickled around her curves, the golden tan of her skin and how her face was hung back, rested and perfectly exposing her neck. My smile twisted in disgust when I saw the dirty coil of thread encircling her throat, that ugly blemmish on her skin and the milk tooth that hung from it. It was horrific, a statement of a mother and of poverty. The only consolation was my ownership. What she wore in my presence was my decision.

Taking a wash cloth to dry myself, I opened my mouth to draw her attention, but nothing came to mind. She must have mentioned it earlier... Was she from a Towlen family? A simple name, I remembered, quite as ordinary as the woman. I scoffed at myself. There was no reason to know her name when I would forget her face tomorrow. She was foreign, I knew as much. It was all part of the appeal.

From her relaxed position the woman rolled her head to face me in a forced laziness. With one hand at her necklace, pushing the tooth up and down the string, she patiently waited for my eyes to finish roaming her body and to meet hers. "Anything else?" she asked, any traces of emotion skillfully tucked away. From her voice I remembered she was from the east, where the seductive accent causes the words to flow into one another.

"Bronwen wants to meet me," I told her. The woman rose from the bath with grace, scented water gliding over her body. Unwillingly my gaze left her eyes once again, following her elegance as she crossed the room.

"So you will leave Mason out of this?" In my distraction I almost did not hear her.

"Who..?"

"My son," she said, and now I heard in the crack of her voice the resolve finally breaking. I turned from her, feeling confident that I had now committed the woman to my memory, and lifted my robe from its hook. It occured to me how much she whined about such irrelevant matters.

"Oh, him?" I mused. "Willing sword fodder is hard to come by." It had the desired effect. I could feel the woman's stale glare on my back, but thought I should at least give her the dignity of leaving my chambers before I had to order her to. I swung my robe around my chest and slid my arms through the red satin sleeves, tying the cord in heavy silence. For a brief moment I was distracted by a damp patch on my right arm, a circle slightly darker, slightly heavier than the fabric around it. I assumed that my servants had neglected to wash my robe properly, but it was perfectly round, like the mark of a black spot on a sailor's palm. I brushed my forefinger over the fabric, feeling the liquid stick to my skin like honey. Raising my arm out to the light to look closer, I saw plainly inked on the wet satin two lines, smudged and blurred at the edges, but still distincly in the shape of a small, black cross.

My senses dissolved into some kind of delirium where the only act is thought, one single thought, repeating in a twisted incoherent loop. My body needed to move, urgency racked me. All I could see was the cross, and with it came fear. It pulsed within me, heating my blood, raging a battle between paralysis and somehow escaping my fate. I needed to run. Yet my feet refused to leave the floor. From inside me came a sudden pain, as if a hand had grabbed my heart and attempted to rip it from my chest. I had realised, this is what the sign is meant to do. The fear would kill me first.

From somewhere over my shoulder I heard a high pitched whoosh. The wrenching truth crushed me. In the stillness my right arm jolted forwards, smacking into the wall in front of me, my entire body following, legs falling from underneath me. Then into it all came pain, a terrible searing pain, as if someone were slowly pushing a white hot poker through the tissue, the veins, the bones.

The arrow had pierced my heart, he had killed me cleanly with one shot, and the sensations were echoes of my life that was now passed by.

But my body cried out to me to breathe, and gasping I opened my eyes. Before me was the arrow, not in my heart as I thought, but between my elbow and wrist. It scared me more to see it there than in my chest. The knowing is part of the fear. Assassins never miss, just as they never leave their quarry alive. He had found his mark as he had meant to with pin point precision, directly on the dark patch, right where the lines of the taunting black cross meet.

The arrowhead had completely disappeared under the satin and skin, exited the other side and impaled itself into the wall. When I tried to yank my arm away an explosive wave of pain shot up my arm and seemed to vibrate the ridge of my spine. These arrows were barbed, designed to lodge themselves in the target. I could not move with my chest pressed against the wall.

Tiny flares sounded, like many candles blowing in wind. My attention swerved from my arm to the end of the arrow, still twanging softly from the impact. The fletching had been incinerated by the burning loin cloth wrapped neatly around the wooden shaft. Through the foggy haze of confusion and pain the physical kick of adrenaline propelled my right arm again, only this time the pain was worse. Frustration surged through me. All I could do was watch as the shaft caught alight with a tiny blue flame, using up its only fuel, moving ever closer to the soft unprotected skin of my arm, closer to the smudged black cross, closer to the damp circle with liquid as sticky as honey...

In my horror my blood squirmed. I scrambled, the barb and wood tearing away at flesh as I failed to rip myself away again. Of course, what else could it be? Satin was not flammable enough on its own. It needed a little help. I stared at the patch of what could only be oil on my arm, and hated how I could not help myself.

But there was my answer. I turned my head so sharply it hurt to the woman now dressed in a flowing white shirt that only partly covered her naked other half. She sat on the dresser at the end of my bed, one leg over the other, eyes watching me with some kind of vague interest.

Immediately the urge came to shout and scream at her, but I thought better. Women respond like horses to sugar when fed compliments. This one would be no different.

"Help me," I pleaded, my voice shaking, "Please. Please, you're the only one who can. Be brave like your son." At that moment she should have seen the vulnerablility in my eyes, heard the mention of her son and with grace should have glided towards me, grasped the arrow with disregard for the flames and freed me from my entrapment. Instead she did nothing. Now a bemused expression came upon her face. She sat still, not uttering a word.

"Help me," I said, with more force, sure now that she was confused about what to do, her language being different from mine. "The arrow," I pronouced more clearly, "It will not let me move." The woman continued to stare. "For Halin's god, will you help me!" I yelled. I was breathing so heavily small drops of spit were flying from my lips. I cast a terrified glance to the flame. The shaft was half burnt away already.

The woman stood, her attention focused on the smoothness of her shirt. I shouted at her again. Her face had now become hard, a frown set in stone. She sauntered towards me. A swell of relief filled me. The bloodfilthy murderer had not counted on anyone to come to my aid so quickly. "Grab the part nearest to my skin and twist it out," I told her. As she neared she turned not to the arrow but to me.

Her voice was far stronger than mine when she spoke. "You will leave my son alone?"

Of course she would try to bargain. "Yes," I lied, "Anything!"

Cocking her head to the side in a show of faked confusion, she placed one hand on my back and stepped to whisper into my ear, "But surely I can trust the deeds of a dead man more?"

The hit of her words had me reeling. The flame was inches from the cross. My fear was going to burst from me.

"I have money," I gasped. If she wanted more, it was nothing in return for my life. "I can protect you!" She laughed. With caressing fingers she stroked my cheek. She leaned even closer to my ear, another whisper, emotionless save from the smallest trace of triumph.

"What is my son's name?"

"What does that-" I began to shout, but she continued.

"You want to prove to me you are worth saving?" The woman placed a finger under my chin to feel me nod. "Then tell me the name of my son."

I did not reply because I did not know. It was useless information. From behind me came a breath of disappointment. The pressure of her weight left my back. She was leaving me. I lashed out with my left arm. I caught her shirt in my fist and dragged her backwards, pinning her to the wall with me. If she would not save me then she would die with me. Her eyes filled with burning hatred. I laughed despite myself, and found I could not stop.

She could not move her body but with a free arm she grabbed my neck. I laughed even harder. With her strength she could not even harm a lamb. She lunged closer to me, and too late I realised my neck was exposed. I felt her teeth like blunt nails, not sinking deep but scraping the skin off my neck like saws. I screamed at the sudden pain and let go of her as she squrimed, bringing a hand to the welling blood. I looked to the flame again. I had not minutes but seconds.

The woman glared at me with all the anger of gods. My blood dripped from her lips. From the floor she rushed to collect her scattered clothing, and as I shouted and swore she cast me not one look of sadness or pity. She straightened and ran to the door in her haste. She wiped the blood from her mouth, leaving a thin red stain behind. With one hand on the handle she stopped. Her eyes met mine.

"Help me," I begged, my voice barely louder than the silence.

Disgust welled in her eyes. "Arrogant men..." she said, opening the door with one last look of finality, "The world has too many." The door slammed behind her, and my fate engulfed me.