The Assassin's Blade (3 page)

“Bind her then! And leave!”

Faylyn opened her eyes as her wrists were seized and a leather cord wrapped none too gently around them. Her arms were jerked upward and the free end of the cord tied securely to the bedpost.

Still more than half dazed, she looked up into the face of the man she had come to kill.

If there was ugliness about him, as he’d claimed, it dwelt in his black soul. His countenance was as beautiful as sin; dark, angular, harshly masculine, but perfectly balanced, flawlessly formed and symmetrical. A stubble of dark hair on his lean jaw and chin attested to the massive testosterone that surged through his system, making him one of the more dangerous animals in the universe had he been nothing more than a lowly shepherd. The power of his position--royal sovereign of more than a dozen worlds--made him the most dangerous of the pack.

Inwardly, she groaned, berating herself for ten kinds of fool. She should have known he was far too cocky to be no more than a guard, royal or otherwise. The man exuded self-confidence from every pore—as well he might, for few ever denied him of his smallest whim.

A tug at her ankles distracted her, and she glanced down in time to see the guard who’d seized her tighten the loop of leather he’d placed around her ankles. As she watched, he looped it several times before tying the loose end to the bedpost of the foot board.

Trussed like a bird for baking and bare to the skin, she noted with a good deal of consternation. They were taking no chances, apparently, that she’d had concealed weapons, or might use her clothing as one.

She wondered if she’d been subjected to a body cavity search, as well, while she’d been unconscious. She felt around her mouth with her tongue.

“It was removed.”

At his comment, Faylyn glanced at the Emperor once more. He was holding a false tooth, the one implanted in every assassin’s mouth in case of torture, so that they could seek a quick release if they found themselves unable to endure. It took an effort to keep her expression impassive. She’d hoped she would be able to use the deadly gas it produced to take him with her.

“Who sent you?”

“I am a Kilrathi assassin.”

“I know.”

“Then you will also know that assassins are not informed of who has ordered a hit.”

He studied her face for a long moment before transferring his attention to the guard who had remained. After a moment, he moved to the foot of the bed and engaged the man in a low voiced conversation. The guard left, closing the door firmly behind him.

Talor Sylvanos turned to study her, his gaze gliding up her body in a slow sweep that missed nothing, pausing for long moments at the apex of her thighs before moving upward once more to linger over her breasts and finally moving over her facial features. The darkening of his eyes was the only indication that he found her physically pleasing. He kept his expression carefully neutral.

“You’ve no body hair.”

The comment surprised Faylyn out of her cocoon of imperturbability. “What?”

He moved toward the head of the bed, trailing a long index finger along her calf to her knee, along her thigh to her femininity, paused briefly there as his gaze had, and then continued over her belly and the curve of one breast. Faylyn found she was having difficulty maintaining even breaths long before he removed the inquisitive finger. He stood over her, staring down into her eyes for a long moment, then reached down and cupped her femininity, either accidentally, or intentionally, sliding that same, inquisitive index finger between the folds of flesh that protected the sensitive inner tissue of her femininity. “No body hair.”

It took a supreme effort to refrain from gasping as unfamiliar sensations flooded her at his touch. Finding she could not master her body’s reaction, she focused on his comment, realizing, strange as the comment seemed to her, she’d heard him correctly. She could not fathom what significance it might have, if any. However, she could think of none it could have on her mission, which meant she was allowed to respond. “It is a racial trait.”

He nodded, withdrew his hand slowly, and moved away, standing at the window, staring out into the night. “A pity,” he murmured without looking at her.

She digested the comment, drawing the nuances from the word, the emotion behind it, trying to decipher the indecipherable. Finally, she decided that the comment had nothing to do with her physical traits, that he was undoubtedly referring to his earlier pursuit and the fact that the night had culminated far differently than he’d anticipated. Quite possibly the comment also reflected his sentiments regarding her execution.

She had no doubts that she was facing just that. Failure inevitably led to death.

With an effort, she put the thoughts aside. She would have no chance of escape if she allowed herself to descend into mindless terror, and, if worse came to worse, she intended to die quickly, cleanly and with dignity intact. She needed her wits about her to accomplish what could well be her final goal.

A tap at the door captured her attention.

Talor turned from his contemplation, glanced briefly at her, and then faced the door. “Come!”

The guard entered, carrying a large, covered tray. After looking around, he moved to the table that stood near the head of the bed and placed the tray upon it. It rattled, as if it was laden with objects of a metallic nature.

Not crockery then.

Not food, though the tray was obviously a serving tray.

At pains to hide her interest, Faylyn stared pointedly at the ceiling as Talor dismissed the guard. She felt his gaze upon her for several moments before she heard his tread and knew he approached the bed once more. The scrape of metal indicated that he had lifted the lid. A dull thud told her he’d leaned over to set the lid on the carpeted floor.

Certain his attention was elsewhere, she glanced quickly at the tray and away again. Her heart beat a dull tattoo of dread against her chest wall as she mentally deciphered the images her eyes had collected.

Devices of torture.

She recognized most of them. She had been introduced to them by the Kilrathi, had experienced them—it being the Kilrathi assumption that experience was the best teacher and knowing what to expect was necessary to an assassin.

Experience had not bred contempt. She knew the limits of her endurance, thanks to her training, but she could not contemplate torture without fear. She could only control the outward appearance of it.

Curiously, however, among the devices of torture were strangely incongruous objects—a wax candle, some sort of clamps, a glass vessel containing a clear liquid, a muff made of Lrynin fur, a tiny wheel rimmed with sharp pins and a ring that was studded with metal beads, but far too large to fit anything other than the finger of a giant.

Talor sat on the bed next to her, leaning forward to study her face for a minute--changes in her expression, she assumed.

“Who sent you?”

She hesitated. “I would not tell you if I knew.”

His eyes narrowed. “I believe you do know.”

She said nothing.

“I’m well aware that assassins are not informed—they cannot give away information they do not have—but I believe you have some idea. I’m merely asking who you believe ordered the hit.”

“You want me to guess? Of what use would that be to you?”

“It’s always best, I’ve found, to know thine enemy.”

“In other words, upon my guess, you would order their destruction, knowing full well that it would be nothing more than a guess?”

He cocked his head to one side curiously, studying her for several moments before he spoke. “You seem to have a strange perception of me. Why would you presume that I would do such a thing on no more than a guess, educated or otherwise?”

Her lip curled. “The destruction of my own world?”

He looked stunned for several moments. He sat back, his surprise giving way after a few moments to a frown of inner contemplation. “So—this is a personal vendetta?” he said as he rose and began to pace.

“Trained assassins do not carry out personal vendettas,” she said coolly.

His brows rose. “But that is precisely what this is,” he contradicted.

“I was chosen.”

“How fortunate for you that your mission coincided so nicely with your personal prejudice.”

Her lips tightened, but she saw no reason to continue to deny it. “Yes.”

He paced to the window and stood there for several moments. “I don’t suppose it carries any weight with you at all that the tale lacks any logic?”

Surprised, Faylyn twisted her head to look at him. “I’m not sure I understand.”

He glanced at her before returning his attention to the view beyond the window. “My power and wealth are derived from the people of the worlds I rule. To destroy is to lose. To destroy a whole world, is to lose immeasurably.”

Faylyn frowned up at the ceiling. “It was as nothing.”

“To you?”

“To you!”

“You know me so well, then?”

“I do not know you at all!”

“Then how can you judge what is of value to me and what is not?” he asked tightly.

“Obviously, my people were of no consequence to you.”

She could feel his gaze upon her, angry, thoughtful.

“I behaved toward you as an enemy?” he said softly.

Strangely, the words sent a wave of regret through her. She swallowed against an unfathomable tightness in her throat but said nothing.

He began to pace again. “So, knowing you had a personal vendetta, because they had planted it there, they still sent you to carry out the mission. Does that not strike you as—uncharacteristic of the Kilrathi?”

Faylyn felt a jolt go through her at his words, and, for the first time, she questioned her assignment. It was truly uncharacteristic of the Kilrathi. In all the years of training, it had been drummed into her, as it had all the assassins, that complete objectivity was absolutely essential to an assassin’s mission. Emotion in any form would only distract, inhibit, promote unsound judgment. Why, then, had she been sent? They were certainly not unaware of her knowledge, or her sentiments. It had been one of her Kilrathi teachers who had told her, upon her arrival at the citadel, that she was the sole survivor of the ruling family of Kailan and that it was her duty to one day seek retribution for the deaths of her family and the people of Kailan. “I … don’t know,” she said finally.

Apparently coming to a decision, Talor returned to his position on the bed beside her. “We will … explore your memory.”

Faylyn swallowed with some difficulty as he fished a fire device from the pocket of his breeches and leaned forward to light the candle on the tray. She sought her inner peace, tried to blank her mind to the images battering at her memory, but the questions that bred fear slithered through her mind like dark serpents.

Would he use those devices of torture she was all too familiar with?

Would he use the devices which had inconceivable uses?

Why light the candle?

The room was dim—only two lamps within the cavernous space—but surely yielding enough light that a single candle could add little by way of illumination?

Did he intend to use the candle itself? Surely he must know the candle could cause little pain.

She realized that he was studying her thoughtfully and wondered if she had given any of her anxieties away in her expression.

His gaze wandered from her face, down along her throat and lingered on the pinkish blue nipples that peaked her breasts. Without glancing at her face again, he turned to the tray, studied it a long moment, and picked up the small clamps. They were connected by a tiny chain.

Faylyn stared pointedly at the ceiling as he returned his attention to her, although, in her peripheral vision, she could see that he was studying the clamps he held. After a moment, she felt his gaze once more.

“Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer to simply tell me what you know?”

Faylyn could tell nothing by the tone of his voice. It was carefully neutral. She did not respond.

He sighed deeply. “This is bound to be … difficult … for both of us.”

For her, probably, she thought cynically, but she couldn’t imagine it would be difficult for him … not if he chose to do it himself.

After a moment, he laid the clamps on her stomach. Turning, he picked up the candle. Holding it about a foot above her chest, he tilted it slightly. Despite her determination not to allow him to see her turmoil, Faylyn tensed, watching as the melted wax dripped from the candle onto her breasts. To her surprise and confusion the wax was barely warm when it touched her skin.

She flicked a glance at him before she focused on the ceiling once more, but she could not refrain from flinching as she felt his hand touch her bare skin, felt his fingers gliding over the sensitive flesh of her breasts, massaging the cooling wax into the skin. Her nipples tightened and stood erect.

She heard a dull thud as he set the candle on the tray once more. She looked down as he picked up the clamps and leaned toward her, sucking in a breath as he very carefully pinched one erect nipple with the first clamp, and then the other.