Zelkov: I have killed many people. So many, in fact, that I sometimes feel *violence* is all I am good for.
Corrin: If that were true, you would be a fundamentally bad person. I don't think that's the case.
Zelkov: Your words are comforting, but I am afraid that is *precisely* the kind of person I am.
Corrin: You have your other pursuits, right? You've taught me so much about having passion.
— A rank bond conversation with Corrin
At one time in the past, there had been a group of nomads who spent their days circling the Inner Sea of Elyos. They called themselves Les Gens de la Mer, but others called them Sea Folk.
They drew shining fish onto the decks of their brightly painted ships. It was not always an easy existence, but they were content. They set foot on the land only when necessary. When their ships needed repairs, they hauled them onto the deserted stretch of beaches between Brodia and Elusia.
But nomads are not well tolerated by more settled people. They were forced from the bountiful fishing spots by the larger nations of Elyos who were keen to consolidate their power. They were chased from the shipping lanes. Slowly, Les Gens de la Mer were driven to land.
The Straits were a barren place where little food grew; still the people persevered. Their ships continued to ply the waters off the cold and rocky shore. It was remote and few bothered them. Few bothered them, that is, until war broke out between Brodia and Elusia. The Straits became contested land, conquered by Brodia, reconquered by Elusia. Back and forth, it changed hands, and every time, villages of Les Gens de la Mer would be destroyed.
Their people were killed or scattered. The ones who were left became refugees, some to Brodia and some to Elusia. Neither country welcomed them kindly. They were outcasts.
A small town in the Black Wood, 987 AF
"That's a real nice coat, sea rat. Who did you steal it from?"
The group of boys closed in on Parijat. They had blocked him into the alley. He wouldn't be able to run this time.
"I did not steal it. My father bought it for me," he told them, even though he knew it would make no difference.
"I heard he's got a lot of money for a filthy rat," said another boy. "So you can bet it's all stolen."
The largest boy grabbed hold of Parijat's sleeve. When he jerked away, the boy yanked on it. There was a ripping sound. Parijat closed his eyes and some tears leaked out. His parents would be so disappointed that he had lost this fine, new coat they had spent so much of their hard earned money on.
"Take your hands off of him."
Parijat's eyes snapped open. The boys looked over their shoulders.
"Zelkov, run!" he yelled.
"I said take your hands off of him."
Parijat knew what that look on his brother's face meant. There was no one more stubborn than Zelkov. When he had some aim in mind, nothing could dissuade him.
"Oh look," the largest boy said, cracking his knuckles. "The other one turned up. You want your crybaby brother, come get him."
Zelkov was fast. The other boys had no time to react before his fist rammed into their leader's face. It was three against one, though. They soon had him pinned to the ground. Parijat hid his face as they beat his brother. What could he do? He was such a coward!
The leader of the bullies spat in Zelkov's face while he thrashed and threw insults at them. Parijat had to do something. He backed up against the wall, then sidled along it. He darted out of the alley before the other boys noticed and called for help. A guardsman looked up from where he was lounging against a wall. He frowned when he saw Parijat.
"What is it, boy?"
"My brother! They are attacking him. Please, you must help!"
The guard followed Parijat to the alley. The bullies were having too much fun kicking Zelkov as he curled into a ball in the snow to notice at first.
"What is this?" shouted the guard.
The boys immediately stopped and assumed expressions of innocence as if they had not just been caught in the act. Zelkov shakily got to his feet.
"Sir, these Sea Folk stole from us, and we were just trying to get our property back," said one boy.
"What did they take?"
"We did not take anything!" Parijat said with indignation.
"Those coats, sir."
The guardsman folded his arms. "Stealing someone's coat is a low crime, boys."
"We did not steal them! Our parents bought them for us," Parijat insisted.
Zelkov only glared and spat some blood on the ground. His face was a mess.
The guardsman grabbed Parijat's arm. "We'll have a word with your parents and straighten this out."
"But… but what about them?" He looked to the bullies.
"These are all the sons of fine, upstanding citizens. You should watch who you accuse, boy."
The guardsman grabbed Zelkov's arm. He tried to shake him off, but the man's grip was strong. Parijat and Zelkov were dragged back to their house a little past the edge of town. Their mother answered when the guard knocked on the door. Parijat's heart twisted when her face creased with fear and worry.
"What happened?" she asked with her thick accent.
"Your boys were caught fighting. Some good, honest lads said that they stole these coats."
"But we bought them! You can ask the clothier. We paid with gold."
"Hmph. I will ask. But you should keep an eye on these two." He shoved Zelkov and Parijat forward. "If they keep making a disturbance, they won't be allowed to go to school."
"They are good boys! They will be good. They will behave." Mère said desperately.
"See that they do."
The guard turned and left. Mère rushed to Zelkov. She put a hand to his face, and he flinched.
« You know better than this! You must not get expelled from school. You must get an education. You must be the best — the finest — to show them that you have a place in their world. »
« It is my fault, » said Parijat. « They were trying to take my coat. Zelkov was only defending me. »
Mère sighed and looked at her battered son. Though Zelkov was oldest by a few minutes only, he took the duties of an elder brother seriously. Parijat and Zelkov might look identical, but no one ever confused them.
« Let me make you a poultice, dear, » said Mère.
Zelkov just stared at the ground.
Parijat sat up in bed when he heard the window open. Zelkov had one leg over the sill.
« You are not sneaking out again , are you? »
« Are you going to run and tell Mère and Père, you coward? » Zelkov snapped.
« No, » said Parijat defensively. « But why do you insist on doing this? Think how much trouble you will be in if you are caught. »
« If they accuse me of being a thief no matter what I do, then why not steal from them? »
« This is a bad idea, Zelkov. Please, do not go. »
« Stop worrying. I will not get caught. »
And with that, Zelkov was out the window and into the night.
Zelkov had not gotten caught. He had a talent for moving silently, learned from years of observing the rabbits, the deer, and even the wolves of the Black Wood. It did not hurt that he had naturally good night vision.
It was the very early hours of the morning. The darkness was heavy with no moon in the sky, but as he neared his house, it seemed to grow brighter. Was it his imagination, or was it torch light?
With an ominous churning in his stomach, he crept closer. It was torches. What was happening? Had someone been hurt and needed his mother's assistance? As much as they might revile her "nasty concoctions," the townspeople knew that Mère was the best physician around.
But that did not seem to be the case. Who were these rough-looking men standing outside his home? They had some strange symbol painted on their coats. Several more came out of the house carrying loaded bags.
"Alright, I think that's all the good stuff. It's a shame they had to put up a fight."
That was not… blood on their clothes, was it? Zelkov's brain did not seem to be working. He stood frozen in the shadows as the bandits made off with all the wealth that his parents had struggled so hard for.
When they were gone, he stepped carefully through the churned up snow and into the darkness of the wide open door. He lit a lamp and carried it with him. Furniture was overturned. Drawers were on the floor. His hands were shaking.
One foot in front of the other, he forced himself from one room to the next, until lamplight shone on the blood. So much blood. How could there be so much blood?
He dropped the lamp and ran.
Zelkov ran into town shouting for help, but all was still. No one answered. Of course no one answered. There would be no one to help the only Gens de la Mer around. He was on his own.
He sunk to the snowy ground. His breath would not slow down. He had never been on his own before. Always, no matter what, from the moment of his birth, Parijat had followed after him. His brother, his father and mother, they were good and kind people. If anyone deserved to die it was him. The last things he had said to them were so cruel. He had been a bad son, a bad brother. Disobedient, rebellious, ungrateful.
It was too late to make it up to them. There was nothing Zelkov could do… Except kill their killers. Vengeance was the only way he could make amends. There would be no rest for him until every bandit was dead by his hand.
He stood up and walked back to his house. The lamp had broken when he dropped it. The carpet was burning. Mère had loved that carpet. Its bright colors were now defiled by blood and flames.
Instead of putting out the fire, he dragged furniture to it. He ripped down the curtains and threw them on top. Anything that would burn, he put on the pyre.
He walked to the kitchen and grabbed a few things to eat. The end of a loaf of bread, some cheese, an apple. He put them in his coat pocket. Zelkov hesitated when he saw a knife on the counter. His parents had kept no weapons in the house — this was simply a tool — but it was sharp enough. He put it in his belt.
He walked out the front door and closed it behind him. He took out the golden key and locked it, then slipped the key back in his pocket. The fire was raging now. The windows could not withstand it. He stood there as the heat of the inferno scorched the tears from his face. He would never cry again.
The roof caved in as dawn was breaking. Zelkov turned and left. He would never come back to this place again. He set off for Givre.
He needed to find an assassin.
Givre, 987 AF
His name was Gentian, although few called him that. Most simply referred to him as "the assassin." Yes, in a city known for them, he was the assassin, and quite proud of it.
He sat in a dark tavern. Where else would someone of his profession be? It was what these furtive nobles expected when searching for someone to do their dirty work. He held a glass that no one noticed he never drank from.
But it was not some poorly disguised servant of the nobility that came up to him that night. It was a boy — Sea Folk by the look of him. He couldn't have been more than fifteen, but his eyes were as hard and sharp as steel. Interesting.
"Are you the master assassin?" the boy demanded.
"Maybe, maybe not. Who do you want killed, boy? And how are you planning to pay for it?"
"I do not want you to kill anyone for me. I want you to train me to kill."
Huh. That was a new one.
"And how would that benefit me?" asked Gentian.
He didn't need some snot-nosed whelp getting in his way. But on the other hand… Gentian wasn't young — for an assassin. Having someone around to do a few of the more tedious tasks wouldn't be awful. And notoriety in his profession was a double edged sword. He had been on top for a long time, and there were always up-and-comers looking to take him down. Having someone to watch his back might not be a bad thing...
"I will do whatever you ask. You will not find a more dedicated apprentice than I."
The boy was certainly motivated, but Gentian didn't want to be stuck with some talentless clod. He would test him.
He leaned forward. "What's your name, boy?"
"Zelkov."
"Give me a hundred gold, and I'll train you."
"I have no money…" He looked down, then turned his fierce gaze back to Gentian. "But I will get it."
"Bring it to me by the first light of morning."
"You will have it." The boy turned to go.
"Hey," Gentian called after him. "Don't forget you're on your own here. If you get in a bind, no one's going to bail you out."
"There is not a moment that goes by that I forget I am on my own."
Gentian settled in to wait. A hundred gold was a pittance, but it was quite a bit for a child to steal in one night. It was a shock, then, when Zelkov came back an hour later and dropped the gold on the table.
Givre, 989 AF
"It is time for me to leave," said Zelkov.
Gentian looked up at him. Since when had he had to look up to meet the boy's eyes? But there was nothing left of a boy about Zelkov. Over the past few years, every last vestige of childish softness had disappeared. Rounded cheeks became hollow. His bones lengthened. The boy never seemed to put on any muscle, but he was stronger than a steel trap. His eyes had not changed from the moment Gentian first saw him, though, blazing with cold fire.
"So you think you've nothing more to learn, do you?"
"I know enough to enact my vengeance. The longer I wait, the more likely it becomes that they will die from some other cause than my hand."
There was truth to that. Gentian couldn't seem to come up with a task that Zelkov couldn't do. If he didn't get it on the first try, he would practice relentlessly until he could do it perfectly again and again. He could scale any building. He could blend into a crowd — dragon knows how. With his daggers, he could hit ten bullseyes in a row with his left hand while hanging upside down. There hadn't been much that he didn't already know about making poisons. Though Gentian would never have admitted it, it was… frightening.
The master assassin nodded slowly. "You'll be someone's nightmare, boy. Relentless. A natural born predator."
Zelkov didn't reply. He bowed and turned to leave.
"Good luck, son."
"I am not your son. And I do not need luck."
No, Gentian had to admit, it wasn't luck Zelkov needed.
The Black Wood, 990 AF
There was a soft pitter pat as blood dripped from the kitchen knife into the seeping puddle. It was a much duller knife than the others that Zelkov wielded. He hoped that it had hurt when he shoved it into the bandit leader's heart.
He had made sure that they died scared, just as Mère and Père and Parijat had. They had known they were being hunted down, one by one, but there was nothing the bandits could do to stop the culling.
And now the last of them lay dead at his feet. All the bloodlust, all the righteous fury that had sustained him was no more.
They were still gone. He was still alone. The violence and the killing had been for nothing. A blank future stretched before him. No meaning. No purpose.
He dropped the knife. He would dig no grave. He wandered until the darkness of the forest swallowed him.
A town in the north of Elusia, 990 AF
Poppy stood on the street corner. It was the dregs of the night, and the few passersby ignored her. Things had been slow since the last garrison of soldiers had moved on to the front lines. She should give up and go to bed. But she stayed a bit longer to appreciate the mild weather. Summer in Elusia was fleeting.
"Hey, handsome," she said on instinct to the man walking by.
He stopped and turned. She had seen eyes less wild on feral dogs. It seemed to take him a moment to focus.
"Were you talking to me?"
He was dirty and disheveled. Not worth her time. But looking closer, he actually was kind of handsome…
"Of course. Who else? Why don't you come inside and spend some time with me?" she purred.
"What would be the point?"
The point was that she needed to pay her bills.
"To feel good for a little while, honey." He didn't seem convinced, so she sweetened the deal. "Twenty extra gold pieces will get you a bath."
He looked down at his palms then back up. "Give me ten minutes."
"Sure, I'll be here."
She watched him wander off. He wouldn't come back, but that was for the best. There was something a little off about him.
But it was only a matter of minutes before he showed back up. He showed her a pouch full of gold.
"Will that be sufficient?"
Her eyes widened at the amount. "It'll just about cover it. Come on in."
She grabbed his arm and he snatched it back.
"Oh! Settle down."
He made an odd face. "Forgive me… It has been a long time since anyone touched me."
She wasn't used to politeness. "That's alright. We can take it slow. I don't bite… unless you want me to."
Her most beguiling smile didn't seem to have much of an affect on him. But who cared if he was a little off when he had a bag full of gold?
"Shall we go inside?" She gestured to the door.
He hesitated. "Very well. But I would prefer to take the bath first."
"Whatever you want, honey."
He frowned at her. "Why do you keep calling me that?"
"Well, what's your name?"
"You do not need to know my name."
"Alright then, honey."
She led him inside. It wasn't one of those high-class brothels, but it was good enough. It could've been worse. She asked the madam for some hot water as she took the strange man up to her room.
Poppy sat down on the bed. The man's eyes darted around, examining every corner of the room. Whatever he was looking for didn't seem to be there. He threw himself into the chair and crossed his arms.
"So…" Poppy said as the silence became more awkward. "What happened to you?"
"What?"
She leaned forward. "Are you some kind of runaway lord or something?"
That would be exciting. He had kind of an exotic look about him. Maybe he was from Solm. She had never met anyone from Solm before.
He stared at her as if she was crazy. "What would possibly make you think that?"
Her cheeks reddened. "The way you talk. And your, um, manners?"
"I was raised to be polite. And I was given a good education…" He looked away.
Poppy breathed a sigh of relief as their conversation was interrupted by the men coming in with the hot water. They filled up the bathtub and left.
The stranger took his ragged cloak off. "Are you going to be here the whole time?"
She spread her hands out. "It's my room."
He grumbled as he began pulling knives out and piling them on the side table. A lot of knives. Too many knives.
She put on a sultry tone. "I could help you if you want."
"I would prefer not. Would you turn around?"
Really? Didn't this vagabond know that she was very sought after? He might have caught her on an off night, but usually there were men lining up for her. Poppy could handle a challenge, though. Especially with a purse full of gold on the line.
She turned around like he asked, making sure that she was elegantly displayed. She let the sleeve of her dress slide down one shoulder. She snuck a glance at him as he pulled his shirt off. He was all skin and bones. She whipped her head back around when he caught her looking.
"You know," she said. "I think you might have enough gold to cover a meal. If you want."
"That would be… appreciated," he said slowly.
Poppy went downstairs and grabbed a few meat pies and a bottle of gin. When she came back up to her room, he was in the bath scrubbing at his hands. She set the pies on the side table, then poured a glass of gin and offered it to him.
"I do not partake in anything that would dull my senses."
"Why not?"
He stared at her for a moment. "Why indeed?"
He took the glass from her and drained it. She passed him a meat pie, and he ate it like he hadn't seen food in days. Maybe he hadn't. Poppy handed him another and followed it with another drink. Some of that wounded animal look was beginning to fade.
She sat on the bed again as he went back to cleaning himself. He took quite a while scrubbing his hair. She began to sing to herself.
"You have a pleasant voice," he said without looking at her.
"Oh, it's nothing special. I just sing to kill time."
"Hmm…"
"Are you almost done?" she asked. "You only have an hour, you know."
"Yes. Is there a towel?"
"On the table."
"Would you turn around again?"
Poppy did as he asked. Clients had asked her to do far stranger things, she supposed. The shyness was actually a bit cute.
By the time she snuck another look, he had the towel wrapped around himself. He caught sight of his face in the mirror and flinched.
"What's wrong?"
"...With a beard I look like my father."
"You can shave."
"Yes."
He picked up one of his knives and got to work. Poppy waited once again. She was startled when he dropped the knife. He was staring into the mirror wide-eyed.
"No, no, no. This is worse. I cannot…" He covered his face with his hands. "Is this what he would have looked like?"
Poppy went over to him and turned him away from the mirror. She had no idea what he was talking about, but it had messed him up good. He was shaking.
"Hey, hey, it's alright, honey."
She peeled one of his hands away from his face and put another drink in it. He gulped it down. She took the glass and put it back on the table. He still seemed worked up. Poppy only knew one way to comfort people.
"Come here. I'll make you feel better." She led him to the bed, and he didn't resist. "It'll be alright. Just don't think about it."
"Do not think about it…" His eyes were looking a little glassy now.
She pushed him down. "I'll distract you real good."
It had been awkward. He had been absolutely lost the whole time. But Poppy hadn't been expecting much.
He was staring at the ceiling now. It was time to kick him out, but she gave him a few more minutes. He really was good looking, but without the beard he seemed much younger.
"How old are you?" she asked.
He blinked and focused his eyes on her. "What month is it?"
"It's August."
"Then I am… nineteen." He sat up.
Nineteen!? She was older than he was by… a few years. What had happened to this poor kid?
He got up and began putting his clothes on. It was amazing how he hid all those knives away.
"Where will you go now?" Poppy asked.
She expected him to tell her it wasn't any of her business, but instead he said, "Who knows? The underworld, perhaps."
That sounded… bad. "You could always come back and visit me tomorrow."
"Hmm. Kill some time…"
"That's right. I can help you forget all your troubles."
He looked uncertain, still a bit glassy-eyed. " If I came back… would you be willing to teach me? I dislike being… unskilled at any task I set myself to."
Poppy resisted the urge to laugh. "As long as you have the gold, I can teach you all kinds of things, honey."
The kid was back again. Despite the fact that he had come to the brothel for a week straight, Poppy still hadn't managed to learn his name. She just called him "honey." The look he gave her when she said it was funny... and his eyes were almost that same golden color.
Speaking of gold, their "lessons" had been very beneficial to both of them. She was making twice her usual asking price, and he was improving by leaps and bounds. She had felt bad for overcharging him the first night, but he had refused her offer to lower it. He never seemed to be short on gold. She didn't ask where it came from.
She got up and poured him a drink.
He accepted it, but said, "I cannot stay long."
"That's too bad."
And the odd thing was that she meant it. Strange as he was, she found herself enjoying his company. He actually listened when she talked.
Whatever hurry he might have been in, he drained his glass and stood there fidgeting with something in his hand.
"What do you have there?" she asked when he didn't say anything.
"Hmm?" He looked at his hand. "Oh. It is a key. I found it on the ground outside and picked it up."
"Why?"
She had noticed the gold one around his neck, of course. He was always very particular about it.
"If I see one abandoned, I pick it up. It is… a compulsion, I suppose. They have lost whatever purpose they originally had." He studied the key. "Perhaps I hold on to some ridiculous notion that I will one day find the locks that they open."
He sounded so sad… She reached out to grab his hand, but he stepped back.
"I cannot stay. I came here to tell you that I must move on."
"What does that mean?"
"I must not feel."
"What does that mean?"
He shook his head. "It is too dangerous. Too painful."
She had no idea what he was talking about. "So… I won't see you again?"
"No." He held out a pouch. "This is all the gold I have currently."
"Why would you give this to me?"
"I can easily get more."
Poppy took the pouch. With this, on top of the rest he had paid her, she might be able to get a different job. Maybe start a new life.
He hesitated, then took something from his pocket and offered it to her. Something bright red. She picked it up to examine it. It was a poppy made of silk.
"I found some scraps of fabric and fashioned this before I… decided to leave."
She stroked her finger over one soft petal. So pretty…
She looked up at him. "You really have to go?"
"I… I should not have come at all."
He turned and walked to the door.
"Wait! Could I have that key you found?"
He looked at her confused. "If you want it, it is yours."
He tossed her the key, and then he was gone.
Givre, 995 AF
Zelkov threw back another glass of cheap gin. He could have afforded something better — he had plenty of gold from his last job — but what did it matter? The expensive variety was no better at erasing memories. And if this burned his throat, well, he deserved to burn.
Some woman was eyeing him from across the tavern, but he had no desire to be touched by cold, indifferent hands that night.
Instead, he wandered outside into the bitter Elusian winter. Blinding sheets of snow stung his face. The wind cut through a hole in his coat. It was extremely sobering. He slumped against a wall.
I should kill myself.
How many times had he thought that since he had taken his revenge on his family's murderers?
I should kill myself.
He had plenty of knives. He had poisons that would make it painless, but it would be more fitting to end his existence with a blade.
Every night, Zelkov decided that he would kill himself in the morning. Yet here he was, still breathing. He provided nothing of value to the world. Violence was all he was good for. Assassination was his only skill set, though he had turned to thievery instead. It was not even a satisfactory challenge to sneak into the houses of the wealthy and steal treasures from under their noses. And the money could never buy anything to fill the void in his soul.
I should kill myself.
Just do it now. There was no reason to wait for morning. But he was distracted by the wind blowing through his coat. The shoulder seam was coming apart. It was… irritating.
Had his mother not taught him to sew? Fine, straight stitches to close wounds. He should repair his coat. A needle and thread, that was all he needed. But where to get them at this time of night?
Zelkov stalked through the streets of the castle town until he reached the garment district. The shops were all shut up, but it would be no matter to break in and take what he wanted. Before he could, though, he noticed a golden light shining through the curtain of snow. He found himself drawn to a small window.
An ancient woman, wrinkled and bent, sat inside embroidering on a hoop. He lost himself for a moment in the movement of her gnarled fingers. She looked up, and they locked eyes. Hers were unexpectedly clear and sharp. He could have disappeared into the night, but instead of screaming, the old woman's face creased into a smile.
He stood there with the snow piling around his boots as she struggled out of her chair and shuffled to the door. She shivered as she was greeted by a blast of frigid air.
"Come in out of the cold, young man. You'll catch your death out there."
Why not? He stepped into the room warmed by a small fire on the hearth. There was a kettle boiling. She eased herself back into her chair.
"Madam, would you be willing to lend me a needle and thread?"
He did not know why he had started emphasizing certain words in his speech. It was an idle amusement. Something to keep people guessing.
"So polite for a stray let in from the storm! You could take some lessons," she rubbed the head of a cat sitting on the arm of the chair. "Needle and thread I have. Take what you like. But first, we'll have a cup of tea."
"That is not necessary."
"I want a cup of tea. If I make one for myself, I might as well make one for you too."
There was logic to that. "Very well, but allow me to prepare it."
The room was filled with the crackling of the fire and the purring of the cat as he poured the water over the tea leaves. The old woman directed him to where an additional teacup could be found. It felt dreamlike, surreal.
He set the old woman's cup on the table beside her, then took a seat in the only other chair. He cradled the cup in his hands, though it was too hot against his fingers. How long had it been since he had had tea?
He drained his cup. The domestic atmosphere grated on him for some reason, and he wanted to escape back into the darkness where he belonged. First, though, the coat must be repaired.
As soon as Zelkov took it off, however, the woman exclaimed, "There's nothing to you, lad! Go get a cookie from the cupboard."
"I assure you there is no need —"
"You'd refuse my hospitality?"
No reply came to mind, so he grudgingly fetched a cookie for himself and the old woman. He felt ridiculous, like a demon who had accidentally been summoned by a faulty stitch in her embroidery. The cookie did smell good though. When had he last eaten?
He took a tentative bite. There was cinnamon and nutmeg and something else he could not place. Would she share the recipe if he asked?
Do you plan to be doing some baking in whatever attic you sleep in next, you fool?
He was getting distracted. "The needle and thread, if you do not mind, madam."
"They're in my sewing basket there. And you may call me Hazel."
He rummaged through the basket and found what he needed. The old woman said nothing, but watched carefully as he slipped the grey thread through the eye of the needle and began stitching up the hole in his coat.
"That's some lovely work, lad," she said when he was done. "You'd never know it had been ripped at all."
He stood and bowed. "I am much obliged to you, madam. Allow me to pay you for the tea, and I will take my leave."
"You can't be going out into that blizzard!"
Zelkov wanted to tell her it was not that bad, but it appeared that the storm had worsened in the time he had been in her house. It was the sort of snow that would have a man lost ten paces from his home. And he did not have one of those.
"It is no matter." Freezing was just another way to die.
"You'll stay the night here, and that's final."
"Why?" His irritation rose to the surface. "Why would you allow me into your home ? You know nothing of who I am, and if you did, you would have all the more reason to turn me away."
"Perhaps I wanted some company. Now you can kill me with that blade on your hip and steal what little I have of value, or you can sleep by the fire tonight and leave in the morning."
"You are an imperious old crone."
"That's right. Now make yourself comfortable."
He threw himself back into the threadbare armchair and crossed his arms. The woman returned to her embroidery. Once again he found himself mesmerized by the push and pull of her hand, the ascent and descent of the needle, as she manifested from nothing the image of a leaf.
"Those fingers of yours can do some delicate work," she said without looking up. "Since you've nothing else to do, would you like to learn some embroidery?"
"I suppose it would be preferable to idleness."
"Come then. I have another hoop here."
Zelkov pulled his chair beside hers, and she began to teach. With rapt attention, he absorbed every detail. His own needle began its journey up and down through the fabric.
"I'm impressed. I've never seen someone pick it up so fast. But sleep is calling for this old crone. Let me get you a pillow and blanket."
"There is no need —"
"I'm sure there isn't, but I'll do it anyway."
He sighed, but accepted the bedding she gave him. He did not seem to have a choice. The old woman went to her tiny bedroom, but he stayed by the fire and continued embroidering. The cat curled up beside him. The world fell away as he poured his focus into each stitch. How soothing it was.
These botanical motifs did not suit his taste, however. Something else came to mind. He retrieved his coat and began to work out in his head the best way to embroider an eye.
When the old woman came out of her room the next morning, she exclaimed, "You did all that in one night? You couldn't have slept a wink!"
"Nevermind that." He thrust the coat at her. "Please, you must show me how to correct this."
"Alright, calm down, lad, and let me take a look. Eh, what was your name, anyway?"
"...Zelkov."
"Fine then, Zelkov. Let me show you."
His own name rang strangely in his ears. It had been many years since he had heard the sound. The master assassin had never used it.
Mistress Hazel lowered herself into her chair, bones creaking. He knelt by her side as she explained the mistake he had made and how to do it correctly. With no hesitation, he ripped out the stitches he had labored over in the night and began anew.
"So," she asked as he worked meticulously. "Why eyes?"
"It is l'œil du destin. It is… a ward against ill fortune."
It was much more than that, but it was difficult to explain. Les Gens de la Mer painted them on the prow of their ships as a way to guide them in the right direction along the paths that fate laid before them. He had no ship, so his coat would have to do.
"Ah, I thought you might be Sea Folk. You have that look about you."
"Yet you still invited me into your home."
"That is the least startling thing about you, I'm sure. Now, would you mind making us a cup of tea?"
As time went by, there always seemed to be a reason not to leave. The snow was piled too deep. There was a new embroidery technique to learn. He could not in good conscience allow Mistress Hazel to make the trip to the market by herself.
He found himself cooking her meals, cleaning her small rooms, and reading to her as she sewed. It was laughable that the assassin had now become a maid, yet it calmed his mind far more than the endless debauchery he had put himself through. There was always some task to be done. He could immerse himself in it and forget for a while.
Then one morning, Mistress Hazel did not leave her bed. When he checked on her, she seemed at peace, as if asleep. But he was intimately familiar with the characteristics of a dead body.
He turned and left the house. How long did he wander until his feet took him to one of his old haunts? The tavern was dim and smokey, too loud and filled with people who probably had some place better they should be — unlike him. He sat in a shadowy corner and stared at nothing.
He pulled his knife out under the table and ran his thumb along the blade. Surely with a knife so sharp, it would be quick and easy. A far better death than he deserved.
Despite himself, his well-honed senses picked up an uneasiness in the crowd. A messenger in the king's livery had wandered in. He scanned faces that quickly turned away until he spotted Zelkov. He approached and held out a roll of fine paper.
"King Hyacinth has heard tales of your... particular skills. He would like to offer you a job."