Lindsay Buroker - The assassin curse

The logical part of her brain insisted that Sicarius would be himself if he reached this shore again, that the Nurian’s curse would have faded. The panicked tired-of-being-shot-at-and-tormented-by-that-island part of her brain had trouble believing it.

Time limped past, and Sicarius did not appear.

Amaranthe walked back down to the dock, a new fear worming its way into her mind. What if Azon Amar had summoned Sicarius back before he could swim away from the island? What if the Nurian spirit meant to keep Sicarius there as a prisoner for the rest of his life?

Amaranthe lifted her chin. That would not happen. If she had to, she would return to the city and collect the rest of her team to rescue him. They could drug him if needed and carry him Someone touched her shoulder, and Amaranthe jumped and whirled about.

Sicarius stood there, damp hair sticking up in tufts, his face hidden by the night.

Amaranthe skittered back until her heel found the edge of the dock. He did not move.

“Are you… you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

The accent had disappeared, and the monosyllabic answers had returned, so she supposed that meant it was him, but she had a hard time relaxing. She would not soon forget the memory of those fingers wrapped around her neck.

“You sure?” she asked.

He extended a hand, palm up. Amaranthe hesitated before stepping closer and accepting it. Gently and slowly, he pulled her into a hug. It surprised her, and she did not know what to say. The closest he usually came to hugging people was grappling with them in wrestling practice-the “hug” tended to end with one being hurled head-over-heels onto one’s back. He held the embrace for a long moment, and she found herself wondering just how close he had come to killing her. Had he been aware of everything he had been doing while under the spirit’s influence?

She did not want to dwell upon that, so she kept her tone light when she said, “Is this supposed to convince me that you’re telling the truth? The real Sicarius doesn’t hug me often.” Despite her words, she slid her arms around him, intending to appreciate the gesture of camaraderie. Her hands encountered dampness, not dripping water from the swim but sticky warm dampness. “You’re bleeding,” she blurted, pulling her arms away lest she hurt him further.

“You did arrange to have me shot,” Sicarius said dryly.

“I didn’t think she’d luck into actually hitting you,” Amaranthe said. “I’m sorry. I needed a distraction to-”

“I know,” Sicarius said grimly. “I should never have gone over there with you. I’d heard the story, of a team of soldiers sent to plant a box of blasting sticks and blow up the island, and of the warrior mage’s spirit taking over one of the strongest and using him to kill many of the others.”

Amaranthe thought of the skeletons on the beach. How many more dotted the island?

“I thought I was mentally strong enough to resist the spirit.” Sicarius rolled his head back to stare at the heavens before lowering it again to add, “Hubris.”

Amaranthe bit her lip. She shouldn’t feel tickled by his admission, especially when he was standing there, bleeding on the dock, but Sicarius so rarely gave away his feelings that she had to admit pleasure at hearing him so clearly disgusted with himself. “Hubris is a common flaw amongst imperial men.” She had more than her share of it herself.

“Yes.”

“A very human flaw as well.”

“You sound pleased.” A hint of puzzlement infused his tone.

“It’s just that between your athletic prowess and your dedication to your training… Well, it’s like I said earlier. Sometimes you don’t seem human.”

“There are other people like me in the world.”

Yes, that Nurian warrior mage certainly must have been one, but Amaranthe had never met anyone else of Sicarius’s caliber. “Oh?” she asked, seeing a chance to tease him-they could use a little lightness after that adventure. “How many? Twenty? Thirty?”

“Five.”

Amaranthe smiled, wondering if he knew them by name. “Do you know if the female thief made it?”

She touched the sheath on his waist that usually held his black knife and found it there once again. He had gone to retrieve it.

“She did not. Your aim was accurate.”

He sounded faintly proud. Amaranthe couldn’t help but remember that her intent had been to take the thieves to the magistrate, or at least tie them up somewhere the army could find them.

“I wonder if they were in it for the money or if their government sent them,” she said, hoping for the former. If she had to kill people, she wanted them to be people who… well, people who deserved it, though she admitted she wasn’t someone who could fairly judge that.

“I heard them speaking,” Sicarius said.

“And?” Amaranthe prompted when he did not volunteer more.

“They were brother and sister, seeking to regain their family’s honor after a disgrace. They would have been heroes, had they returned home with that much Turgonian technology.”

“I see.” Maybe she shouldn’t have asked. It disheartened her to realize those two had been on a mission not so dissimilar to her own. “We better tend to your wound and head back to the city. We’ll have to take a break from training while you recover.”

“We?”

“You don’t expect me to tread water while holding a brick over my head by myself, do you?”