Lindsay Buroker - Shadows Over Innocence

Sicarius slipped into an expansive room in the Imperial Barracks, the rambling old building that held offices and residences for the emperor and those who assisted him in his rule. As the throne’s assassin, Sicarius counted as one of those men. He set down a large, bloodstained sack and leaned against a pillar in the shadows.

On the far end of the rectangular space, sunlight streamed through the spotless panes of tall windows, warming the marble floor and the back of the room’s single occupant. The small boy pushed a tangled thatch of pale brown hair out of his eyes and hunkered over a gleaming, white floor tile, a charcoal stick grasped between his fingers. Heedless of the sanctity of the palatial decor, he squiggled lines onto the floor with precise squeaks. Sicarius cocked his head, surprised at the intricacy of the pattern forming.

Footsteps echoed from the corridor. Two men, one grayer than the other but both past middle age, strode into the bright chamber. The child bolted upright. He clutched the charcoal stick behind his back and shrank into himself.

“Sespian!” Raumesys Savarsin, the younger of the two men and the twenty-seventh emperor of Turgonia, curled his fingers into a fist and glared at the boy. “What are you doing?”

Eyes downcast, Sespian whispered, “Drawing, Father.”

Unnoticed by anyone, Sicarius clenched his jaw as he watched from the shadows.

“Drawing.” Raumesys turned to the willowy, gray-haired man next to him, Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest. “My son, the future emperor and leader of our armies, is drawing on the floor of the solarium.” He turned back to the boy. “Come here!”

For a moment, Sespian hesitated, eyes darting, as if he might flee into the shadows, but Raumesys growled, and the boy plodded forward. Chin drooped to his chest, he halted before the men. The emperor bent and grabbed his arm, knuckles whitening. The boy flinched, but he did not cry out when the charcoal stick was ripped from his grasp. Raumesys snapped it in half, the crack echoing through the silent room like a bone breaking.

“Father!” Anguish flashed across the boy’s face as the splintered halves clacked to the floor and rolled across the marble. “That was my only-”

“And you’ll get no more.” The emperor dropped to one knee and grabbed Sespian by the front of his shirt. “You’re five years old now. It’s time you stopped playing and started learning how to lead a nation. No more foolish scribbling on the floor, do you understand?”

“Mother always lets me…”

“Your mother’s too soft with you. You will rule a nation of warriors one day. You must be strong.”

Knowing the shadows hid him, Sicarius let his fingers curl into fists. Not for the first time, he was tempted to intervene, to protect the boy from such abuse, but he did not move. Speaking against the emperor-thinking against the emperor-was not permitted. He had learned that lesson well as a boy.

“No more drawing,” Raumesys repeated. He pulled Sespian close, twisting his arm. “Do you understand?”

The boy winced. “Yes, Father.”

Cold and distant, Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest watched impassively. A familiar sight, Sicarius thought, as he remembered Hollowcrest’s presence during his childhood training sessions. Steal sixteen years, and this moment might have been with him. No, he reminded himself; this cruelty was mild compared to what he’d endured. Sespian was Raumesys’s heir, not some future assassin they were training. The boy would learn resilience and survive. Despite the thoughts, it took some effort to force his fists to unclench.

“Such frivolity should be punished, Sire,” Hollowcrest said.

To deter that punishment, Sicarius picked up the sack and strode into the center of the chamber. The emperor, reminded of work matters, ought to send the boy away.

Sespian’s eyes bulged at Sicarius’s approach. He tried to squirm away from his father’s grip.

Sicarius knew that, dressed all in black accented with throwing knives and daggers, he wasn’t the friendliest looking man. He wished he could soften his face for the boy’s sake, but that wasn’t permitted either. As they’d long ago drilled into his head, the face must be kept devoid of thought and emotion, lest an enemy gather information from one’s eyes. He’d been punished relentlessly until he’d mastered a facade that they deemed acceptable.

Raumesys noticed Sicarius’s approach first and twitched in surprise before recovering a more regal bearing.

Hollowcrest did not twitch. He said, “Sicarius,” by way of greeting and eyed the sack. “Were you successful? Did you get them all?”

“Yes,” Sicarius said.

“Let’s see,” Raumesys said.

Sicarius glanced at Sespian.

Hollowcrest raised an eyebrow. Though thin, wire-framed spectacles perched upon his hawkish nose, his dark brown eyes remained sharp, and he missed little. “Concerned for the boy?”

Sicarius knew the words were a test. Everything was always a test. “No,” he said, giving the expected response. “Concern is a feeling, and feelings interfere with duty.”

Hollowcrest nodded his approval.

“Sespian will stay,” Raumesys said. “Time he learns what comes with the position.”

Anger simmered behind Sicarius’s carefully constructed mask. The boy was too young; he shouldn’t have to witness such atrocities. “Understood, Sire,” was all he said.

Hollowcrest twitched his fingers in a get-on-with-it motion.

Sicarius untied the bag and upended it. Four severed heads rolled out and bounced on the white marble. Though desiccated and distorted after weeks of travel, they were still identifiable: man, woman, and children.

Sespian screamed and jerked away from his father. He stumbled, recovered, and fled the room. Sicarius was the only one to watch him go.

Raumesys slapped a palm on his thigh. “Excellent.”

“Yes,” Hollowcrest said. “There’ll be no more talk of uniting the tribes in Mangdoria, with their most prominent chief dead, along with any hope of worthy scions.” He nodded to Sicarius. “Go relax. We’ll have something new for you in a day or two.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sicarius padded toward the exit, his soft black boots silent on the tile floor. He paused in the doorway and glanced at the backs of the two older men.

The emperor emitted a nervous chuckle. “You trained him too well, Hollow. The man bothers me.”

“He is loyal.”

“I know. You did a good job. I ought to give you Sespian to work with. The boy is disappointing.”

“He does seem soft,” Hollowcrest said.

“Did you hear that scream? I would’ve been fascinated by severed heads at that age.”

“You’re fascinated with them now, Sire.”

“True enough.”

They shared a laugh and headed for the door. Sicarius slipped away before they noticed him.

Darkness pressed against the windows overlooking the large gymnasium in the rear of the Imperial Barracks. Sicarius grabbed a towel and wiped sweat from his face and bare torso. He’d warmed up with a couple of hours running sprints, scaling the climbing wall, and strengthening his muscles with sand-filled bags of various weights. Then he’d talked quasi-worthy, off-duty soldiers into wrestling and boxing with him. More precisely, he’d stared at them and pointed to the rings painted on the wooden floor until they’d joined him. Some of them knew who he was, and others did not, but nobody had disobeyed.

The bouts had been short and not particularly satisfying. For years, Hollowcrest had brought in tutors from all over the world to instruct Sicarius on different combat styles, and, even though the best soldiers in the army were chosen to work at the Barracks, it’d been some time since any had challenged him. Honing a blade on a dull stone was difficult, but better than letting it rust. Hollowcrest, Sicarius reminded himself, would send him to the Global Grappling Tournament in the summer, an event where the best warriors in the world competed for honor and, more important for Sicarius, could learn from those better than themselves.