‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ CHAPTER ELEVEN ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
a letter from cintra

   HER FATHER'S OFFICE was the complete opposite of when she first took a step there, warm and inviting with the dying fire in the fireplace and the candles in the last few spurts of life. Rain pattered against the windows and stones, gentle music that could only be heard from the gentlest voice. A bard in the centre of a quiet tavern, smooth fingers against the strings of a lute as they let out the sound of something heavenly from their mouth. 

   Rennen had only heard that voice twice in her life. 

   She let her fingers brush against the wood of her father's desk, the edges of opened letters pressing just beneath the tip. He had cleaned the desk since she had last been there, the majority of the letters she had seen nowhere to be found when she searched through the drawers of the desk and between pages of books. It took her a moment to look at the fireplace. Between the dying flames and the mostly-burnt wood, there were pieces of paper that had not burned completely. Remnants. 

   Whatever her father, the Jarl of Skellige, did not want others to see, he burned. 

   She looked down at the scars in her arms. Old wounds that healed through scabs she had picked to make herself feel something, to push away the numbness that had eaten at her since she left Urialla Harbour as a child. The burns from hot scalpels pressed against her skin, pushed down down down until something came out. Blood? Had it been red or had it been another colour?

   Beneath the pages of a book that was written in Elder Speech, Rennen found a letter still inside its envelope. From Cintra, written in the eloquent hand of Queen Calanthe. She had heard many things about Cintra's queen: at fourteen winters she gained the throne after her father's death, and at fifteen she won her first battle at Hochebuzz against Nazair. All before she was made to marry some man.

   It was the very thing the letter was for. An invitation to celebrate the princess's fifteenth year of life, yet between the sentences the assassin could see what was hidden. Whoever married the princess would become King of Cintra; the queen wanted an alliance with Skellige and her younger brother was a candidate for not only the princess' hand but for the crown of Cintra. 

   She tried her hardest to imagine Rullul as a king, but all she could see was a bloody crown upon his head and a cruel smile on his lips. He was not kind. As a child, he used to catch birds and smash their heads with a rock as he laughed wildly at the sound they made. If they did not die fast enough, he would continue to smash until the head was a mess of feathers and insides and blood. And then, his laughter would ring like the call of warhorn. 

   Rennen crushed the letter in her palm and threw it on the desk, hurried out of her father's office. Rage pilled inside of her, a forest fire prepared to set everything aflame until there was nothing but ashes and soot. Her brother could not be the one to have Princess's hand, even less the crown of Cintra. If he did. . . 

   If Rullul took the golden crown of Cintra upon his head, a war would be waged. 

   She left the office as silently as she arrived, the words memorised, turned over and around until it was all that she could think about. She would not fight in that war, not chose sides because no side in war ever won, but the prayers to the Dread Mother would grow. Countless upon countless praying to a death deity for the demise of their enemy for the pettiest of things: a stolen bag of grain or a bottle of milk, they missed a ducat when they paid at the market, even for a wrong glance. . . Prayer upon prayer, and who was she to turn them away when the Dread Mother did not?

   If Rullul took the crown, would she pray to the Dread Mother for his demise?

   The Dark Brotherhood had killed queens and kings for as long as it's lived. Members often spoke within themselves about who was the legendary assassin that had managed to kill a king or queen, who infiltrated the castle of whatever royal family and managed to end the ruler. No one knew who it could be. Their identities were kept hidden even within their very ranks, but their stories did not die. They were written in the books kept by the Listener, the only person in the entire guild to know each and every kill and by whom the kill was made. 

   Rennen entered her chambers. She stilled at the door, her hand still around the handle. 

   Someone was there.

   She had let her dagger tucked in the corner of the canopy of the bed, between the cloth and the wood. A deep inhale through her nose and she took a step forward. The room had not changed, still dark with the windows open to let in the cold air and droplets of rain to fall inside the room. She could see the outline of a figure to the corner of the room, crouched. They did not expect her.

   The room did not smell of magic and there was no lightning preparing to strike against her skin. 

   She straightened her shoulders and let the wave of tiredness she had suppressed finally take hold. A yawn left her mouth as she moved to the fireplace to light it, not only to illuminate the room but to push away the cold that came through the open windows. She raised her hands up to stretch as he moved to the windows, closing them, then stilled.

   The figure no longer crouched, they tried to move to the darkest corner of the room.

   She breathed through her mouth and turned to the figure. "Are you going to leave so soon?"

   The figure stilled.

   Rennen took a step to them, a heinous grin forming on her lips. "Is that any way to barge into a lady's room?" Another step towards them. "What would my father say when he sees a strange man. . ." She felt some kind of farce barge all through her being, waves ebbing and flowing until they fulfilled her with the kind of rage she had come to be familiar with. "Dead on the floor of this bedroom?"

   An audible swallow came from the figure. 

   She kept taking slow steps towards the figure. It was obviously a man, with broad shoulders and a shaved face that appeared so boyish he had to be younger than her by years. His eyes were wide, trembling as he looked from her to the door she came through. Another audible swallow came from his throat, the distinguished bob of his Adam's apple. 

   In a single blink, she closed the distance between them and wrapped her hand around his neck. "Who are you?" she asked, fingers tightening.

   The boy gasped and tried to pry her fingers away from his throat, nails digging onto her skin until they drew blood. 

   "Who. Are. You?" she repeated, freeing a hint of her hold around his neck.

   The boy dug his nails into her skin, deeper than before. "I-I. . ." He swallowed beneath her palm. "I was sen-sent here!"

   She stepped closer to him, enough to see that his eyes were blue and he had dirt on his cheeks. A simple boy sent to. . . To what, exactly? "By who?"

   "No one gave me a-a name!" Tears began to fall down his cheeks, the clear trail that cleaned the dirt on them. "They to-told me to. . ." Another tearful swallow, a cry that sent him to look up at the ceiling. "They told me to force myself on you—"

   Rennen's hand tightened harder around his neck. "Who told you that?"

   "I-I don't know!" he cried. "I didn't wan-want to, but I had to! They-they gave me a bag of-of ducats that can hel-help me feed my fam-family for two months!"

   Money could make anyone do anything, especially when they were desperate for it. 

   A sigh and a hum left her mouth. "You don't want to, yet you managed to find your way to this room without anyone noticing. . ." She leaned close enough that the only thing she could see was his eyes. "So tell me, boy. Who sent you?"

   He shook so much she thought he was gonna piss himself on her slippers. "Please, Lady Rennen!" he pleaded, the strength on his legs faltering with every word that was passed between them. 

   "Lady?" Some kind of laughter left her mouth, a combination of nails dragging down stone. "Now I'm a lady to you?" If the boy continued to shake as hard as he did, the stones around them would begin to crumble. She allowed her hold of his neck to loosen to a touch of fingers and palm against the skin of his neck. "Listen, boy, do not piss on the floors, okay? It's too late and there's no need to send anyone up here to clean." She took a step back but kept her hold on the boy. "They gave you a hundred ducats, yes?"

   The boy nodded furiously, tears beginning to fall down his dirtied cheeks. 

   "I will give you 500 ducats," she said, "and all you have to do is tell me who told paid you."

   At that, the boy stilled. A singular tear fell down his cheek, traced the way the others before it fell and weighted on his chin. It dropped onto her thumb.

   She raised a brow. "So?"

   He swallowed beneath her palm and nodded, eyes darting all over the room until they fell back to hers. "The-the man. . . He was. . . Tall! Yes, he was tall!"

   "Tall?" She almost rolled her eyes and yawned, but she kept her eyes still and focused on him. "Is that all you noticed?"

   "It was dark, m'lady," he said, shaking his head. "I could only focus on the bag of gold I was given. . . Forgive me!"

   She inhaled deeply through her nose and rolled her eyes. "Anything specific about this man, boy? Any scars? Accent? Smell?"

   He stilled once again, eyes focused on nothing but brows furrowed deeply. "The man was a foreigner," he said with a careful yet sure nod, "and I think I could smell the brine from the sea. . ."

   "You think?"

   "I kno-know!" He nodded furiously once again. "And I saw. . . There was a scar on his left cheek."

   Foreigner. A scar on his left cheek. 

   Rennen let her hold of the boy's neck fall as she took steps backwards, eyes still focused on him as she went to the dresser. On top of the dresser laid a carved wooden box, florals on all five sides. She opened it and pulled out one of the bags full of ducats, and threw it at the boy. "You can count them when you get home, boy," she said. 

   "Henrig, m'lady," the boy said as he grabbed the bag with both hands. He kept the bag close to his chest, eyes focused on it and hands focused on the weight. 

   It took her a moment to realise the boy revealed his name, for the five hundred ducats on the palm of his hand. For a moment, she almost laughed at him. A naive boy prepared to push himself onto her for a hundred ducats because he so desperately needed them. If he had done as what was told of him, he would be one of the many boys that felt the coldness of her blade and the embrace of the Dread Mother. 

   "Henrig," she repeated his name. "Henrig, Henrig, Henrig." She continued to say his name as she paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, the warmth of the recently lit fire spreading through her side and pushing itself all around her. She stopped, turned to face him. "Tell me, why shouldn't I kill you where you stand?"

   The change of her mood was a tide, flowing and ebbing with each thought that ravaged her mind. Boys and men were too much alike, no matter how many winters had passed them. The things they do to women because they want to, the desire that destroys the women and girls around them for only thirty seconds of pleasure. She had killed many of those boys and men for less.

   Henrig's eyes widened, the coin bag in his hands falling to the floor in a thud and jingle of coins. "M'lady?"

   Rennen took one step close to him. "I have killed boys and men for what you were told to do to me," she revealed, the same venomous smile on her lips as when she first arrived. "Why shouldn't I kill you for even thinking that you'd be capable of doing so? No, for thinking to even do it."

   He shook his head and fell to his knees, hands pressed together in the form of the beginning of a prayer. "Please," he said, voice broken and high. "Please, m'lady. . . I was-wasn't thinking!"

   She kept her eyes on him as took a seat on the chair by the fire and crossed her legs in front of her. The chair was soft beneath her, good enough for her to grab a book and read by the fire, but she was in no mood for books or the warmth of the fire in the rainy night. A fury swarmed inside of her, pure and unfiltered and begging to be let out. She would, but she did not want to stain the stone floors red or have someone wake up in the depths of night to scrub until their hands were raw. Instead, she would ask and ask until she got answers. And if that did not work. . . The blade screamed and begged for a drop of blood that it had not drank in weeks.

   "You weren't thinking. . ." she repeated, tasting the words. They tasted of fury, of pure fire and hatred. How many men had said the same thing? The repetition of words once others found out what they did, the stuttering apologies as they fell to their knees like Henrig did before her. "What changed your mind?"

   The boy stuttered inaudible words that made no sense to her. He repeated them over and over again, a lot like the same words men had repeated when they were found out. 

   She had heard them before, none moved her, and neither did Henrig's words, but she needed him. Without him, she would not be able to find who paid him and who sent the other man. 

   She inhaled deeply through her nose, pushed her hair away from her face and briefly pinched the bridge of her nose. "I am not a forgiving person," she said, slow for the crying boy to hear her. "I do not believe in forgiveness but sadly. . . I need your help."

   Henrig's quivering slowed for a moment. "M'lady?"

   "You will find out who paid you, and through that find out who paid him," she said, slow and carefully. "You might find yourself a thousand ducats richer if you do as I say, Henrig. Will that be enough for you and your family?"

────── ⚔ ──────

   Morning arrived too quick, the sun hidden behind grey skies, a mixture of rain and snow pattering against the stones of the castle. Rennen had not slept since she sent Henrig away, the thoughts were too loud. The letter was in front of everything else. Her younger half-brother was a rebellious boy who most likely enjoyed bloodshed as much as a drink in the tavern. If he became king there was no doubt in her mind that he would be with others as he was with her. The open invitation to fight in front of everyone, the quick laughter that left his mouth even when she had beat him, and the grin even when his teeth were red with his own blood.

   That spark of violence in his eyes had mirrored her own.

   Rennen dressed in dark, muted colours she was most comfortable with. For a moment, she thought of adding the handprint broach that signified that she was a member of the Dark Brotherhood, but she stopped herself and pushed it to hide by her dagger. She would not make them afraid of her because of the guild she joined, but because she had the same harsh winter running through her blood. 

   The main room where everyone, a room where everyone in the castle met for their meals, was full. More bodies swayed around the room, their laughter and conversation loud enough that she thought it would bounce all over the walls and push through the glass of the windows until it reached those in the harbour. Yet, as she stepped inside and made her way to the same seat she took yesterday, the conversation died. 

   Only for a moment. 

   The conversation continued as soon as she took a seat and leaned back on the chair. A servant arrived with a plate full of eggs, ham, potatoes, and two honeyed croissants. Three large platters full of fruits were scattered on the table, two glass jugs full of apple juice and two earthenware jugs full of goat milk. There was so much food around the tables that the assassin only watched for a couple of minutes before pushing her fork into the potatoes and deciding to eat. 

   She glanced around the room as she ate, eyes focused on each person for a couple of moments until she moved to the other. They all looked at her for a moment as well, smiled and nodded before turning back to their conversation and food. She wanted to see the foreigner in the hall, the tall man with a scar on his left cheek. There was no foreigner, no scent of brine. . . All she could smell was the food, the perfume her stepmother wore, and the sweat of whoever did not bathe in the room.

   Rennen glanced to her right. Torgeir Tuirseach sat in the centre of the table, to his right his sons and to his left his wife and the assassin. Fenrir was supposed to sit next to their father on his right, a reminder that he would follow his father's footsteps as the future jarl of the clan, but there was another figure there. A man just as tall as their father, with a dark beard and a moustache shaved close to his skin, laughter lines by his mouth and eyes. He looked similar to Torgeir, a similar nose they both shared from their mother. 

   He leaned forward and caught her eyes, and smiled. "Hello, Rennen."

   She swallowed the food she had in her mouth and nodded once. "Uncle Eist," she said. The name felt strange on her tongue as if she wasn't supposed to even call him uncle even though she had done so many times as a child. 

   Her father had two brothers and a sister: Bran Tuirseach ruled as King of the Skellige Isles and Amdja an Craite married the Jarl of Ard Skellig as soon as she came of age. It was only Eist Tuirseach who never married, who only wanted to explore the world and have his freedom. He had that the moment he stepped down from Jarl and allowed Torgeir to have the title. 

   "It's been too long, Rennen," Eist said with a nod. He lifted his cup in her direction, a quick greeting, then took a swig of it before settling it down on the table. Whatever conversation he had before noticing her, he continued it with smiles and laughter. 

   Rennen swallowed hard. She had not seen her uncle since she was a child, a quick memory of seeing him off as he climbed onto his ship and left for his adventures. The memories of her uncle were quick and swift, but she did remember how he used to sneak her sweets from the places he visited. A smile on his face, a finger to his lips to keep quiet, a push of a box to her hands as he whispered about how he was able to buy that sweet in the midst of battle. As a child, she used to think her uncle was some powerful warrior blessed and favoured by the gods.

   A chair was pushed back. Silence settled on the room. 

   Her father stood, cold eyes staring around the room for a moment before he cleared his throat, grabbed his cup, and took a big gulp. "In two days," he began, voice clear and loud for all to hear, "Eist and Rullul will be leaving for Cintra to celebrate Princess Pavetta's birthday and for her hand in marriage."

   Rennen's hand stilled around the cup full of juice. She glanced up at her father, then over to Rullul's quirked smile at the other end of the table. His fingers tapped against the table, his other hand resting on his chin. The very image of smugness. 

   Fenrir did not react by their brother's side. His eyes were lowered as he focused on his food, fork and knife scraping against the plate to cut a large piece of ham. He did not waver, did not budge an inch as their father continue to speak what she, and probably Fenrir as well, thought of as nonsense. 

   Eist was still by his brother's side. No emotion could be seen on his face, then he blinked. A wide grin appeared on his lips as he nodded, glanced from his nephew to his brother.

   If whatever plan her father had begun, she would be quick to follow. A fox after a rabbit.

   Rennen waited until the room was empty of people, occupied by only a handful of servants who began to pick up the dirty plates and clean the tables, then followed after her uncle. He moved slowly through the castle, took his time to glance around as if he were visiting the market instead of the castle he grew up in. Had it changed much since he was a child?

   He stopped by a window, hands behind his back and face close to the glass. "You're still bad at sneaking around, Rennen," he said without looking away from the window.

   Rennen stopped by his side and let out a hum. "I did not try to sneak," she revealed, focusing on his face. Lines of ageing on his forehead and around his mouth, deep bags beneath his eyes that almost mirrored the same ones that adorned her face.

   A soft laugh escaped his mouth. "Of course, of course," he said while nodding. "Whatever you say, Rennen."

   "Whatever I say. . ." she repeated. "How about this, then? Leave Rullul out of whatever you and Father's plans are."

   Eist let out a sigh and shook his head. "Rennen. . ."

   She raised a hand to stop him from continuing. "You think a mere alliance between Skellige and Cintra would come if Rullul is married Princess Pavetta." She scoffed, a sound that was almost like a wicked and dry laugh. "Rullul Tuirseach is not a careful man, Uncle. You overestimate his brains as well as his brawns."

   A small smile from her uncle, full of amusement. "I was told about the battle between you two. You defeated him."

   "Easily," she admitted, almost puffing out her chest. "I knew his moves would be reckless."

   Eist arched a brow. "Reckless?"

   I was the same when I began with the Dark Brotherhood, she added in her mind. Instead, she clenched her jaw and rolled her shoulders until she heard a soothing crack. "He wanted to kill," she simply said. "Don't you know he would do the same the moment someone said something that bothered him?"

   Her uncle began to shake his head. "You haven't been home in years, you don't know—"

   "Normally, when one returns from so many years they receive a welcome, not an invitation to fight." Even though her words were full of spite, her body had enjoyed the fight. It was as if her body had been stiff before the fluid movements in the courtyard, arms pushing and pulling with the weapons and wanting nothing more but to maim. A fury she was familiar within the midst of bloodshed. 

   The same look she had seen in Rullul's eyes when they fought.

   "I don't have a say in this," Eist sighed and shook his head. "All I am tasked to do is take Rullul to Cintra and make sure if he doesn't do anything reckless before—"

   "Before you're able to make an alliance between Cintra and Skellige?" A scoff left her mouth as she rolled her eyes and crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Rullul is not the answer, not unless we want war for the sake of bloodshed."

   Eist chuckled. "You haven't been home in years," he repeated. "What would you know of alliances? About government?"

   She knew plenty, she wanted to say. Kings and queens, lords and ladies, viscounts and viscountess, dukes and duchess—they were all the same. Money and power, the ebb and flow of golden coins passing between hands of the other wealthy to do whatever they pleased without a second thought to pull them back. Men, for one, were ones of the many that were too familiar with the fluidity of gold and pleasure. 

   A man could have as many mistresses as he wanted when he was married, no one would say a word about it. It was even encouraged for a man to find a mistress when his wife did not satisfy him, even more encouraged when the wife was with child. Yet, when a woman would seek a lover when her husband did not satisfy her, they were called whores and were punished severely. At times, even death would find them.

   She could count the times a man had prayed to the Dread Mother to kill his wife because she fucked another man when he had been in the bed of many others without a care in the world. Of course, she denied him while laughing. 

   There were many whores that had more nobility than those with money and elegance.

   "As you said, I haven't been home in a few years," she said with a grimace. "I think I've learned several things about alliances and government in these many years." She did not mention how she had a hand in countless alliances by the swift cut of her blade across a neck or a harsh push through the chest. 

   Eist ran a hand through his face. "What do you suggest we do, then?"

   "Someone other than him," she said between her teeth. She took a deep breath through her mouth and waved a hand in front of her face, a quick motion as if to flick away at a fly. "For fuck's sake, Uncle Eist, even a rat would be better than him. Have the princess marry some rat found in the docks, what difference is there to Rullul?"

   He laughed, his voice echoing through the hall. "A rat, Rennen?"

   She shrugged her shoulders. "Anything is better than Rullul," she repeated. It had been years since she last saw her brother, even longer since they were anything but cordial with each other. The quick glimmer of violence in his eyes as he demanded a fight moments after they saw each other again made it known that he would not be a gentle man, even less a gentle husband. 

   Eist turned to face the window, hands behind his back and eyes focused on the simple fog that obscured the outside. "I cannot go against my brother, wean."

   Little one. 

   She liked to think she was not as little as when she was a child. The years had taken a toll on her mind just like it did with her body; her breasts and her hips were fuller, her legs longer, and the little hint of age had begun to take root in her skin. At twenty-eight winters, there was no doubt in her mind she was not as small as when she was a child. Even Jaskier had been able to easily push her not only against the wall but hold her down on the bed. 

   A shiver ran up her spine and she cleared her throat, following her uncle's glance to the window. Fog covered the copse of trees outside the windows, only the brown of their trunks and the dead ground visible. Snow and rain continued to fall against the stones of the castle, a combination of the two already beginning to cover the ground and would freeze overnight. 

   The weather in Skellige had always been cold, just like whatever ran through her veins. 

   "Can't or won't?"

   His eyes hardened. "Won't," he said. "Nothing good will come if I disobey Torgeir."

   Rennen clenched her jaw and watched as the fog seemed to dance around the trees. "An alliance can still happen," she said, "but it cannot be with Rullul. He cannot take the crown of Cintra."

   "Then, who do you suggest?"

   "A rat," she repeated, shrugging her shoulders. "I'll go catch one for you."

   Eist closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, a deep sigh leaving his nose. "Rennen. . ." The way he said her name was full of disappointment, a hint of amusement tried to be hidden.

   The assassin ran a hand through her hair and let out a sigh through her mouth, her eyes narrowing at the way the fog danced around the trunks of the trees and made the few leaves move along with it. Her mind had raced the moment she read about the plans of the alliance, she had only wanted to take Rullul away from the position and never managed to think of a replacement. That, out of everything else, bothered her.

   She clenched her jaw, her shoulders rigid. "That's not everything," she said, lowering her voice. "Uncle, someone came to my room last night and tried to force themselves on me." She almost pushed an exaggerated frown onto her lips. 

   "What?" He turned to face, eyes wide and his hand reaching for the sword at his side. 

   "They didn't get far enough to touch me," she continued. "I already know who it is, so no need to work yourself up."

   "You're telling me someone tried to force themself on you and now you want me to do nothing about it?"

   Her eyes fell on him with a bored expression clear on her face. "I have dealt with worse." She waved a hand in the air, like flicking away at a fly. "I'm telling you this because someone paid him to go to my room and force himself on me."

   "Someone. . ." His brows furrowed. "Someone paid him to. . ."

   She nodded. "Five hundred ducats. I paid him five hundred more for him to find out who paid him, and who paid that man."

   "And?"

   "Nothing yet." She glanced around the hall until her eyes fell back on her uncle's. "I have a feeling that whoever paid thought it was the only way to either destroy me or have me leave."

   Eist frowned.

   A wicked grin formed around her mouth. "The only way to destroy me, Uncle Eist, is to kill me, and I don't plan on dying any time soon."