Hey everyone, thanks for your patience. Here's the next chapter finally up, but first I thought I'd share a short poem. I've really been getting into Stephen Crane's poetry lately, so you'll probably see me posting some of his poems before the next few chapters. Enjoy!
A man feared that he might find an assassin;
Another that he might find a victim.
One was more wise than the other.
-Stephen Crane
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The wind howled from outside as Tarra pulled the stable door shut behind her. It was dark and eerie inside without a sign of life except for the whinnying of the horses and the creaking of the floor boards beneath her feet. Tarra's heart pounded as she made her way further through the aisle between the stalls. A shiver ran up her spine as the tall figure of Barak Mahal emerged from the shadows, his translucent green eyes glowing in the obscurity.
"Hello, Tarra," he greeted with a smile that contradicted his menacing tone, "For a moment there, I thought you wouldn't show."
"What are you doing here, Barak?" asked Tarra concealing her uncertainty by getting straight to the point, "I had everything under control until you showed up."
Barak let out a cool, unfeeling laugh. "Yes, I could see that," he said sarcastically, "You know, Tarra, I'm beginning to wonder if you haven't switched sides on me. When news reached me that you had killed one of Nassir Hamalo's assassins---"
"Wait just a second!" Tarra protested, remembering the circumstances in which she and the other assassin had found themselves on her first night at the fort, "It's not my fault that incompetent imbecile and I ended up behind the same tapestry. Not to mention, he was going after my bounty. I had every right to kill him and you know it!"
"Your bounty being Arthur, I assume?" replied Barak advancing dangerously close to her, "That's very interesting, considering that, as far as I can tell, that target still has yet to be eliminated."
"Barak, please," stammered Tarra, backing away from his advance, "I just need more time."
"Shut up!" boomed Barak's voice, "Now you listen to me. We don't have time for these eccentric little mind games you like to play that make you think you're so clever. Arthur has to be killed, and he has to be killed soon."
"Oh, come on, Barak. Rush a kill and you spoil the fun of it, right?" teased Tarra with a nervous laugh, "What's the big hurry? It's not like his head is a bloody melon that you have to pick while it's still ripe. You need to relax a little bit. I mean, damn, I don't remember you always being so uptight."
Barak's face showed no reaction to the insult, except for the corner of his mouth curling up in an amused half-smile. For such a sinister character, he certainly did smile a lot, which in turn made him seem all the more dangerous. "You know what your problem is, Tarra?" he asked pointedly, "You lack vision. Hell, that would be putting it lightly. What you really lack is substance. You walk around with a sharp reply to everything. You've built up this elaborate wall around yourself that makes everyone wonder what's behind it, but do you know what your secret is Tarra? Your secret is that there's nothing beneath that façade. You're all parapets and no palace, Tarra."
Barak looked down at her triumphantly, waiting for her reply, but she simply held his gaze with a firm defiance. "Well? Aren't you going to say anything?" he demanded.
Tarra raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I'm sorry," she replied haughtily, "I thought we had established the fact that you were talking to a wall."
Barak let out a roar of laughter. "You always were my favorite apprentice, Tarra," he said, "It's really a shame you've turned out to be such a disappointment. You know, you had the chance to prove something about yourself with this assignment, but you had to go soft on me, didn't you? Don't try to deny it. I know all about your little escapade in the forest to help your brother's lover. How quaint. I never picked you for being the family type."
"Half-brother," Tarra corrected, "And I haven't gone soft. Even if I had, would that really be so bad? What kind of person tries to prove their complete worthlessness as a feeling human being by murdering a bunch of innocent people?"
"Don't kid yourself," Barak scoffed, "Idealism never suited you. You're too self-absorbed and too incomplete of a person."
"Well, seeing as I'm so incomplete, I at least won't be able to stay absorbed with myself for too long and certainly would not dwell upon the subject as long as you have."
"Oh, Tarra, what a side-stepping politician you would have made---if only you had been born Roman---and noble---and male," Barak said, laughing at Tarra's apparently misfortunate circumstances of birth, "But you see what I am really dwelling on is your character for only that, in turn, will indicate your abilities. Do you have the cold-heartedness, the drive, the stamina---to take Arthur's life?"
As he said these words, he drew a dagger from his belt and held it out to Tarra. It had a beautiful, sparkling blade with a lavishly engraved brass hilt. A flash of lightning danced across its sharp edge and glittered down to its pointed tip. Tarra stood paralyzed, staring at the deadly weapon that was extended to her, waiting to be transferred into her hands. Tarra's arms remained unflinching at her sides, despite Barak's antagonizing glare that ordered her to relieve the knife from his grasp.
He waited only two seconds longer before the dagger was at her throat. "Is this your answer then?" he snarled in her ear as he pushed her up against the stable wall. She felt the sharp edge of the blade digging into her neck and a cold hand snatch one of her wrists, pinning it against the wall with the rest of her body.
She gasped for air as her throat constricted at the pressure of the knife. "Please…don't…touch…"
"Shut up!" he growled, pushing the dagger further into her skin and tightening his grasp around her wrist. Her entire body stiffened at his contact, as her eyes darted from side to side searching for any means of escape, but she was trapped in his broad frame that pushed her further and further up against the wall. Her thoughts immediately went to her dagger. Where had she hidden it? She cursed herself at the realization that it was in her boot, out of her reach. She wanted to scream, but no sound could escape her throat and she was finding it increasingly difficult to take in breaths of air. She cringed at Barak's voice that spoke relentlessly in her ear, "I gave you a handsome share of the reward didn't I?—to kill Arthur. Now, when I pay as substantial a sum as that, I expect results. I expect---"
Barak's words were suddenly cut short and the dagger clattered to the floor at their feet. His grip on her wrist loosened and his eyes rolled lazily back into his head as he tumbled lifelessly to the ground. Tarra's vision finally came into focus as she observed Lancelot removing his sword from where he had plunged it between Barak's shoulder blades. Tarra's hands trembled violently from the shock at what had passed, which presently rendered her speechless. Lancelot, however, was not waiting for her reaction.
"You---you were sent to kill Arthur?" he asked in a voice that was dangerously low. His eyes remained fixed on the corpse at his feet as he was filled with too much rage to look her in the eyes. She found herself giving a slight nod of affirmation, keeping her eyes fixed at her feet in shame. "Get out," he whispered with a voice that trembled with ire.
"Lancelot, please---let me explain---" she pleaded.
"Get out," he repeated, raising his voice, "Leave. Leave the fort---leave this country---and never come back."
"Lancelot, I beg you---"
"GET OUT!" he roared, unleashing his wrath with eyes that burned through Tarra mercilessly to her core.
Tarra shivered as tears welled in her eyes, searching for any sign of compassion in his countenance. He stood unchanging with his jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists, and his breathing ragged as rage surged through his veins. Tarra gave one hard swallow down her dry, parched throat, then fled the stable, leaving the door swinging behind her in a gust of wind.
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She tore through the gates of Hadrian's Wall and knew not how long she had been running except that she was now deep into the woods and could no longer see the edge of the forest behind her. An unknown force kept her feet pounding against the mud-caked forest floor. The rain had subsided, but the wind still blew furiously against her tear-streaked cheeks. The leaves in the trees rustled and a bird above flapped its wings, but Tarra was oblivious to all sounds except the screaming voice in her head that told her everything was wrong and would never be right again.
She could not shake the image of Lancelot's rage infested face when he discovered who she truly was. He had every reason to kill her right there along with Barak, and maybe he should have. She ought to have been grateful that he spared her life, but his face, his horrified face, was forever engraved in her memory like an epitaph on a tombstone. Lancelot might as well have killed Tarra because everything he believed about her was changed in that instant when he entered that gods-forsaken stable. The Tarra he thought he knew was dead now, if in fact something could die that had never existed, and there ran the shell of what was left of her, cast to a strong east wind.
A sharp pain shot through Tarra's side, and she realized she must have been sprinting for nearly two miles. She slowed her pace as a great, mighty oak appeared before her, and she sought refuge under its extended, sheltering branches like a baby bird under its mother's wing. Its thick, winding trunk bore a faded etching that Tarra strained her eyes to read. She traced her fingers along the letters and read its words aloud, "He who hath nothing to die for hath neither anything to live for."
Tarra fell to her knees in despair and self-indignation. Would she ever find something to live for, to die for? Or was she dead already? Would she ever truly live? She shifted herself so that her back rested against the base of the strong oak, gathering her legs up to her chest. The forest felt vast and empty around her, magnifying her awareness of her intense loneliness and complete solitude. A little voice that was all too familiar whispered in her ear, 'So he found out what you really are, and so he'll tell everyone else. What does it matter?' But it did matter. It mattered so much. She laid her head down to rest on her knees, closed her eyes, and lost herself in thoughts of regret.
Tarra was unaware of how much time had passed when she looked up suddenly at the sound of a horse's hooves from off in the distance growing louder. Her jaw dropped in awe at the sight of Tristan atop his white steed, cantering towards where she sat. As he looked down at her sitting dejectedly beneath the great oak, the memory of the day she was born flashed back to him, "What could I do? I wrapped the baby in a blanket and headed into the forest. I had almost reached the grave when I saw a caravan of traveling gypsies sitting around a fire. I crept as close to them as I could, and laid the baby down beneath a tree." How strange that he should find his sister beneath a tree now.
Tarra wiped away the left over tears from her blood-shot eyes. "So, I guess you know, then?"
Tristan dismounted his horse and strode towards her. "Yes," he replied plainly, without opinion or emotion, "I know."
Tarra narrowed her eyes at him, trying to read his thoughts. "Well?" she demanded, "Have you come to rid the world of me once and for all then? I warn you, I put up a pretty damn good fight." With that, Tarra got to her feet, drawing out the dagger she had concealed in her boot.
Tristan let out a sigh, "Put that away. I'm not going to fight you."
His words baffled her. "Is this some kind of trick?" she asked suspiciously.
"No tricks," he replied, holding up his empty hands as evidence, "You shouldn't just run off into the forest alone. Didn't you learn anything from your last encounter with the Saxons?"
"Alright, now I know this is a ruse," she said in a tone of bewilderment, "It has to be or you're out of your damn mind. I was paid to kill Arthur, and you're worried about my falling into the hands of the Saxons? Why? You want the pleasure of killing me yourself? Do you really expect me to believe that you give a damn about my safety? You were right about me! Don't you see that? You were right all along!"
"No," he said simply, "Not entirely. You're untrustworthy, self-centered, manipulative---"
"Gods! What is this? The Holy Day of Everyone Pointing Out Tarra's Faults?" she asked, throwing her hands up in the air.
"Let me finish," Tristan demanded firmly, "You are many things that are less than honorable, but if I've learned anything from my service under Arthur's command, it's that people should be judged by their actions. Yes, you were paid to kill Arthur, but that's of no consequence now because you didn't do it. You couldn't do it. Instead, you saved the life of the one person who is dearest to me on this earth. Rid the world of you, Tarra? Perhaps I should be thanking you."
Tarra stared at him for a moment in bewilderment, struck at the realization that he was being sincere. Turning her head from him in shame, she whispered, "You were more right than you think and you wouldn't be saying those things if you knew the whole story." Then, drawing in a deep breath, she resigned herself for the first time to telling the truth. After all, what did she have to lose now? "Barak Mahal was not my only employer in regards to the assassination," she said, turning back to Tristan, her voice slow and steady, "I don't know why I'm telling you this except that I see no benefit for myself in keeping it a secret now, so to hell with it. I'm leaving this island forever and you'll never see me again, but before I depart you should know that a Roman woman of noble birth named Lucia Gaius had also paid me in advance to kill Arthur---and to kill you."
"Lucia…" Tristan repeated through gritted teeth, "I should have known."
"Yes, but, please---" added Tarra, "Please, you must believe that you were right one thing---about the part where I couldn't go through with it. I couldn't."
He studied her for a moment, searching her eyes to determine the honesty of her words. "I know," he assured her finally, "But nevertheless, you're not leaving. You've thrown these events into motion, and now you're going to set them right. You're going to tell Arthur everything you know---the truth this time."
"If I go back to the wall---they'll kill me."
"Without a doubt they would---if you returned alone. No, you will return with me, and I promise no harm will come to you."
"How do I know that I can trust you?"
"You don't. So that makes us even," he answered, "Now, hurry. This storm has only begun to brew."