A Magic of Dawn

Rochelle Botelli

If she was to be the White Stone, if she was to be what her matarh had taught her to be, then she could not wait much longer. The Hirzg and Hirzgin, their family-along with Rance ci’Lawli and the personal staff-would be leaving in two days, and that would ruin all the planning she’d done.

She’d been slow because she wanted to be here, wanted to know her vatarh better. But she had to act now, if she were going to act.

If she fulfilled the contract and killed Rance ci’Lawli as she had killed the others, then she might also have to leave the palais just as swiftly, and in leaving the palais, leave behind forever her vatarh.

Rochelle knew some of the same emotional conflict must have torn at her matarh in her day: pregnant with Jan’s son, in love with him, yet forced to flee-because if he knew who she was, that knowledge would also destroy the love and any chance she had. Rochelle fingered the stone that hung in a leather pouch around her neck, the white pebble that Matarh believed held the very souls of those she had killed. I understand, Matarh, she thought. How hard that must have been for you…

But she was not her matarh. She wasn’t tormented by voices. She had only begun to be the White Stone. And her matarh had been too enamored of the knife and of watching her victims die.

There were other ways to kill someone, and if she did it right.. . Well, she might fulfill the contract and not need to flee the scene. All she needed was a sufficient proof of her innocence.

To that end, she had seduced Emerin ce’Stego, one of the trusted palais gardai. In the past week, she had spent as many nights as she could with him in her small bedchamber in the lower levels of the servants’ wing, as both of them were generally on day duty and the palais gardai were permitted to occasionally spend nights away from the barracks. Emerin was pleasant enough, and gentle enough, and not much older than Rochelle herself. He also had wonderful green eyes; she enjoyed watching him as they made love, seeing the surprise in his face as he found his release. The first few nights, she made certain to get up in the middle of the night, jostling their bed and making enough noise that he would wake sleepily and talk to her. “You sleep so lightly, love,” she told him. “It must be your training.”

He’d smiled at that, almost proudly. “A garda needs to be alert, even when he’s sleeping,” he told her. “You never know when you might be called, or when something might happen.”

“Well, I’d never be able to sneak away from you at night. Why, I was trying so hard not to disturb you at all…”

Matarh had known knives and other edged weapons, but she had also known the rest of the assassin’s repertoire, and Rochelle had paid close attention to that portion of her education. It was easy enough, the night that the Ambassador of the Holdings left, to slip a potion into Emerin’s wine goblet-a slow-acting sleeping draught. They made love, and he had drifted off to sleep. Rochelle slipped from the bed and dressed, taking with her the blade Matarh had given her, her favorite dagger, its edges blackened with a tar she was careful not to touch herself.

Rochelle had acquainted herself with the patterns of the palais and the servants’ wing. The night staff would be at work; the day staff sleeping. Rarely would anyone be moving in the corridors. She was able to quickly slip to the single outside door, then sidle along the wall in the moonless, cloudy night to the window of Rance’s bedroom. She could see the campfire of the gardai near the gate, and the forms of the men there-staring outward, not back toward the palais, and their night vision ruined in any case by the flames.

The staff rotated the duty of cleaning Rance’s rooms; it had been Rochelle’s turn three days ago, and she had taken the time to replace the metal lock of Rance’s casement with one she’d fashioned from painted, dried clay. It was the work of a moment to push hard against the window. The clay cracked and crumbled easily; the two windows swung open. She could hear Rance snoring inside-Rance’s snore was nearly legendary among the servants. She hoisted herself up and slipped inside, dropping almost silently to the floor. She pushed the windows shut again.

She needed no light; she’d familiarized herself with the room. Rance invariably slept alone. “ No one could actually sleep with that racket in the same bed ” was the usual laughing response from the staff if anyone speculated on the aide’s love life. She heard more ominous gossip-that Rance had been injured in an accident as a young man and no longer possessed the requisite equipment for such activities.

Whatever the reason, Rance always slept alone. Rochelle’s eyes had already adjusted to the gloom; she could see the hump of his body under the covers-not that anyone needed more than ears to locate him. She padded over to the bed. He had tossed one of the pillows on the floor; Rochelle picked it up. She slid the dagger from its sheath. Then, in one motion, she plunged the pillow over Rance’s face and slid the the dagger along his side, the cut shallow but long-the depth of the stroke didn’t matter, only that the black poison on the blade entered his body.

Rance immediately jerked awake, his hands scrabbling blindly, but Rochelle pressed all her weight down on him. The poison on the blade was already doing its deadly work; she could hear the choking rattle in his muddled cries and the flailing hands began to jerk spasmodically. A breath later, and they had dropped back to the bed. Carefully, Rochelle lifted the pillow from Rance’s head. In the dimness, she could see his mouth open, the tongue black and thick and protruding from his mouth, vomit smeared along his chin. His eyes were wide, and she quickly removed the two pebbles from the pouch laced around her neck: the White Stone’s pebble, and the one that Josef cu’Kella had given her. Her matarh’s stone she placed on the man’s right eye, cu’Kella’s on the left. After a moment, she plucked the one from his right eye and placed it back in the pouch. She cleaned the dagger on the bedding before sheathing it again.

Moving to the window, she quickly replaced the metal latch and tied a string around it. She climbed back outside, then pulled the twin windows shut; pulling the string, she brought the metal latch over to snug itself in the opposite latch, and a tug on the string pulled it through the crack between the two segments of the window.

A few minutes later, and she was back in her bed next to Emerin.

It was not until dawn that a scream awakened them both.