run,” the intruder said. Thren snapped up his shortsword and blocked the first two blows from the man’s dagger. He tried to counter, but his vision was blurred and his speed a pathetic remnant of his finely honed reflexes. A savage chop knocked the sword from his hand. Thren fell back, using his chair to force a stumble out of his pursuer. The best he could do was limp, however, and when a heel kicked his knee, he fell. He spun, refusing to die with a dagger in his back.
“Connington sends his greetings,” the man said, his dagger aimed for a final, lethal blow.
He suddenly jerked forward. His eyes widened. The dagger fell from his limp hand as the would-be assassin collapsed. Behind him stood Aaron, holding a bloody shortsword. Thren’s eyes widened as his younger son knelt, presenting the sword. The flat edge rested on his palms, blood running down his wrists.
“Your sword,” Aaron said.
“How…why did you return?” he asked.
“The man was hiding,” the boy said, his voice still quiet. He didn’t sound the least bit upset. “Waiting for us to go. So I waited for him.”
Thren felt the corner’s of his mouth twitch. He took the sword from a boy who spent his days reading underneath his bed and skulking within closets. A boy who never threw a punch when forced into a fight. A boy who had killed a man at the age of eight.
“I know you’re bright,” Thren said. “But can you read a man’s meaning from his words? Not from what he says, but what he doesn’t say. Can you, my son?”
“I can,” Aaron said.
“Good,” said Thren. “Wait with me. Randith will return soon.”
Ten minutes later the door crept open.
“Father?” Randith asked as he stepped inside. Senke was with him. He looked slightly older than Randith, with a trimmed blonde beard and a thick mace held in hand. They both startled at the bloody body lying on the floor, a gaping wound in its back.
“He waited until you left,” Thren said from his chair facing the entrance.
“Where?” his son asked. He pointed to Aaron. “And why is he here?”
Thren shook his head. “You don’t understand. One too many, Randith. One fatal mistake too many.”
Then he waited. And hoped.
Aaron stepped toward his older brother. His blue eyes were calm, unworried. In a single smooth motion, he yanked Randith’s dagger from his belt, flipped it around, and thrust it to the hilt in his brother’s chest. Senke stepped back but wisely held his tongue. Aaron withdrew the dagger, spun around, and presented it as a gift to his father.
Thren’s eyes twinkled as he rose from his seat and placed a hand on Aaron’s shoulder.
“You did well, my son,” he said. “My heir.”
Aaron only smiled and bowed as the body of his brother bled out on the floor.
1
Maynard Gemcroft paced the halls, his bare feet cushioned by the thick carpet. He paced far from the windows. Even though he had paid handsomely for thick glass, he did not trust it. A thick stone followed by a single arrow was all it’d take to lay him out on the carpet, bleeding red on the blue weave. A thin, wiry man, he lived within his castle-mansion protected by over a hundred guards. Only the king was as well protected.
Yet two days prior, he had nearly died.
A guard opened a door and stepped inside. He wore chain armor with a dark sash wrapped around his waist signifying his allegiance to the Gemcroft family line. His teeth were crooked, and when he talked the sight of them disgusted Maynard.
“Your daughter is here to see you.”
“Send her in,” Maynard said as he checked his robes and smoothed his hair. He always prided himself on his appearance, but lately he found less and less time to primp and preen. It seemed like every other night he’d awake to alarms and cries of trespassers. Come the morning, yet another guard would lie dead somewhere on the grounds.
The guard stepped out, and then in came his daughter.
“Alyssa,” said Maynard as he approached with open arms. “You’ve returned early. Were the men in Kinamn too boring for you?”
She was short for a lady, but her slender body was supple and strong. Maynard had never seen a man best his Alyssa in any feats of dexterity, and he knew many she could out-drink as well. Her mother had been a wild one, he remembered. A shame she had slept with another man. Connington’s gentle touchers had never been