The Third Ascended

Lazeran smiled and took the invitation handed to him by the noblewoman’s servant, diligently checking the details. “Welcome, Lady Prescott, please enjoy the evening’s festivities.”

The noblewoman sniffed, her nose in the air, as though she could somehow hold it high enough to avoid the smell of the working class. Her servant gave Lazeran a knowing smile as they strode past him and into the banquet hall.

Lazeran’s passion, which he was fortunate enough to also call his occupation, had taken him to the finest halls and most squalid corners of the world. He’d met kind nobility and villainous beggars, and he’d also crossed paths with lecherous kings and virtuous seamstresses. But if his work had taught him anything, it was that death treated all equally. Virtue or vice, wealth or poverty, when he killed them, not a single one carried anything into the mystery on the other side of death.

All other things being equal, Lazeran preferred killing the wealthy, for those were the killings that shifted the fate of the world. They were also the ones that tended to fill his coin purse to bursting, though that had never mattered much. It was certainly true tonight, for King Redmond, the King of Varidon, had paid him a hefty sum for tonight’s efforts. Varidon might yet be small, but its coffers were as deep as the sea.

“I think that’s the last of them,” Sims, the servant standing across from him, said.

Lazeran made a show of checking his list, though he’d memorized and tracked every guest as they’d arrived. “I think you’re right. Why don’t you knock off early? I can handle both our jobs from here.”

“His Lordship doesn’t like it when he sees us slacking off,” Sims responded.

“So, don’t let him see you. Why don’t you try your luck with that new serving girl at Hogarth’s? You think his Lordship, the self-proclaimed King in the East, is going to pop in there for a mug of ale? Maybe one of Hogarth’s famous sausage rolls? I think he’s got far more pressing worries on his mind tonight.”

Albert Stonhaven was a powerful noble and head of his house, but if he couldn’t quickly forge an alliance with the major houses in the west, his house would be absorbed by Varidon before he could firmly establish his hold over the surrounding lands. Stonhaven’s guests tonight were from house Denithor, and an alliance with with them would easily overwhelm Varidon with their combined military might.

Sims couldn’t care less about the forces of history that teetered on the edge of a blade tonight. He grinned, his thoughts already running toward the lovely blonde who’d recently joined Hogarth’s staff. “Well, if you’re sure you can handle it?”

“I’m sure. I might even get out early myself and find my way there.”

Sims slapped him on the back. “You’re a good man, Lyle, I’ll see you soon!”

“See you!” Lazeran’s lie echoed in the night after Sims. Lyle would die tonight, along with several others. If Sims ever saw him again, it would be over the sharp end of a dagger thrust into his heart.

Once he was certain Sims was gone for the night, Lazeran abandoned his own post without anyone being the wiser. His servant’s livery made him as good as invisible, and the months he’d spent working within the castle allowed him to navigate the halls like it was a second home. He ducked into a rarely used storeroom and found the bundle he’d hidden there.

The thrill began near the tips of his fingers, a tingling that made his long, thin fingers want to tap out a beat on any surface that echoed. It traveled up his arms and settled in his chest, as though he were one of the armored knights suiting up for battle.

When he’d been younger he’d dreamed of becoming a knight, had dedicated himself for hours to the mastery of the blade. Only the thrill of the chase had faded as he’d grown into manhood. His instructors had lauded his skill and he’d been the best his city had seen in a generation.

It soon bored him. All fell before his blade, and what honor, what interest was there in simply defeating a long line of hopeful students?

His life turned in a different direction the night a wealthy friend asked him to kill a rival. They’d been competing for the hand of a young woman, who just so happened to be heir to a small fortune.

To this day, Lazeran couldn’t say why he’d said yes. He hadn’t particularly needed the money, nor had he held any grudge against the man his friend wanted killed. The best answer he’d ever come up with, the answer he’d never tell anyone, was that he’d been bored.

The killing had been easy. A dagger in a dark alley did the trick, between the gap in the ribs and straight into the heart. He’d had farts that lasted longer.

In the moments leading up to and after, he’d felt nothing.

But then he’d watched the world dance. His friend paid him more than he’d ever seen in one place. His friend and the woman married, and with his new fortune, his friend became an advisor to a king, and the world was forever shifted.

That was what he lived for. Not the money or the challenges, although he respected both. He didn’t care about the killing itself.

No, it was the power that sent the tingles up his fingers and into his chest. Not just the power of life and death, but the power to use death to shape the destinies of kingdoms. Assuming King Redmond’s plans came to fruition tonight, the course of the small kingdom of Varidon would be forever altered.

Because he killed for coin.

Lazeran pulled a guard’s uniform over the top of his servant’s clothes, then took a moment to slip into his new character. He stepped out of the storeroom and made his way towards the retinue from House Denithor.

“Oy, you lost?” A gruff voice from behind him called out.

Lazeran jumped, as though he hadn’t heard the guard behind him. He turned to face one of Stonhaven’s guards. He adopted a sheepish look and said, “Actually, a little. Did your king commission a castle or a labyrinth?”

The man’s face maintained a rigid seriousness before he decided the foreigner meant no harm. “Between you and me, I’m not sure he would know the difference.”

Lazeran barked a laugh, then looked around the corner. “I think I figured it out. House Denithor is around the next corner, right? On the west side of the dining hall?”

“Aye, you’re almost there.”

“My thanks.” Lazeran gave a wave and continued on.

After the first kill, there’d been more. Many more. Enough to fill a graveyard and he couldn’t stop. Daggers, swords, rope, poison, the method hardly mattered. Sometimes he made murder look like an accident. Other times he wrote messages in blood. Whatever the client requested.

The world began to dance for him. No one knew his face, but they all knew his name, and every king, merchant, and ambitious peasant sought him out. The contracts he took were always fulfilled, and by choosing which contracts he took, he decided who lived and who died, and in so doing, decided which kingdoms and houses rose and fell.

There were days when the tingling in his fingers almost became something else, a belief, no matter how foolish, that he would someday make the world dance with a thought alone. He couldn’t say why he was so certain the day would come. It seemed only a natural progression, like muscles growing stronger after long days in the field, his unique skill trained now for year after year.

Already he felt the world bending to his will, as though reality itself were something malleable, something he could hammer into shapes of his choosing like a smith crafting a fine dagger. Neither servant nor guard paid him much mind, though he walked among them with cold steel and warm poisons.

Lazeran rounded the corner and entered the dining room. He made his way to the edge the gathering, close to the exit from the kitchen. Stonhaven wasn’t a demanding master most days, but he’d yelled at the serving staff for nearly an hour this morning about etiquette. The plates were to be laid out in order, from the highest-ranking guest to the lowest, allowing Lazeran to strike with even less risk than he’d already accepted.

Stonhaven’s deep voice boomed throughout the room, echoing off the polished stone walls and floor. He called the guests to the table, and servants and guards shuffled to take their positions around the perimeter. Lazeran was already in position in a small recess, not exactly hiding, but away from anyone’s attention.

Once the guests were settled, Stonhaven took a golden cup from the table and held it high. “Today I’m honored to be joined by so many friends. These are dark days, but those of you here brighten them. House Denithor and House Stonhaven have been neighbors for generations, and it is my fervent wish that in time, we will grow closer yet.”

Lazeran caught the snicker before it escaped his throat. Until about a year ago, Denithor and Stonhaven were more likely to slit each other’s throats than raise a toast. Only Varidon’s growing strength kept them from sharpening their daggers tonight.

Stonhaven looked directly at Bertran, the broad-shouldered, blank-eyed king of House Denithor. “Bertran, I have watched from my throne the nature of your rule, and rarely have I witnessed such strength of arms and keen judgment. You are a credit to your house, and I’m pleased you accepted my invitation to dine tonight.”

It was all Lazeran could do not to laugh out loud. Bertran’s judgment was about as keen as a butter knife, and that was if Lazeran was feeling generous. Bertran was an incredible warrior, but he needed someone guiding him, for he was best when a sword was put in his hand and he was pointed in the right direction.

Stonhaven knew this well, of course, and so the last part of his toast was directed to the oldest man at the table, Luthar, who sat beside Bertran at all times. He was the man who directed Bertran’s sword, and it was he who ensured Denithor’s continued existence.

Stonhaven met the older man’s eyes and said, “And a special welcome also to you, Luthar, for it is well known that your wisdom has long been a guide to House Denithor.”

Luthar offered Stonhaven a small nod. He was a thin man with a sharp gaze, and though age waged its relentless war upon his body, his piercing gaze missed nothing. Lazeran caught the subtle movement of Luthar’s jaw and was satisfied. It was a well-known fact that Luthar had taken to chewing Vireleaf the last few years. The leaf sharpened minds and perceptions. Lazeran had tried it once and found the results subtle but meaningful. No doubt, Luthar hoped the habit would allow him to remain of useful service for a few more years, for no one had risen capable of replacing him yet.

Stonhaven raised his cup high and said, “To House Denithor and to friendship!”

Cups around the room were raised, each having already been sipped at by a poison tester. The nobles and advisors drank, and the mood around the table relaxed.

Stonhaven gestured to his High Steward, who set in motion the small army of servants responsible for the serving of the meal. Loaves of bread, still warm from the oven, emerged from the kitchen, accompanied by rich butter and cured meats carved thin. Empty cups were refilled with wine, though Luthar only sipped at his cup.

The High Steward gestured once again. A marching line of servants emerged from the kitchen, each carrying a bowl of soup. Lazeran counted the plates and made to cross through the line when the correct number came up. It was clumsily done, and he was rewarded with hissed curses from the servants balancing the bowls of hot liquid. He apologized, brushed a speck of food off one servant’s shoulder, then bowed as he shuffled away, pocketing the now-empty phial as he took up position on the other side of the hall.

He waited until he saw the soup bowl placed before Luthar, then he melted into the shadows.

Lazeran climbed the stairs to a balcony. A few servants gave him odd looks, but they ranked lower than a Denithor guard, so tradition and custom sealed their lips. He didn’t mind being seen, though, for in due time they would remember his uniform and have plenty to say.

He reached the balcony in time to see Luthar’s poison tester step forward with his spoon. The poor man dipped his utensil in the broth, then brought it to his lips and sipped. He did so without hesitation, either immune to the fear one in his position should rightfully feel or indifferent to his future. Regardless, he tasted the soup, nodded, and retreated to the wall where he would wait for the next course.

Luthar spoke with one of his neighbors, a minor noble in Stonhaven’s court who had already consumed too much and spoke with gestures large enough to encompass the whole hall.

While Lazeran waited, he removed three packages he’d stashed nearby. He retreated into a shadowed alcove of the balcony while he assembled the pieces into a small crossbow. He loaded an arrow he’d strapped beneath the railing.

Below, Luthar took the first sips of his soup, then resumed his conversation. Lazeran’s position allowed him to watch the advisor’s face. Somberwort had a subtle, sweet taste, but Luthar didn’t notice it. He took several more sips, and Lazeran waited, humming a silent tune to himself as his opportunity approached.

The world turned to the will of the assassin, and Lazeran wondered if any of the guests below realized they were nothing more than pieces on a game board. Sometimes it felt too easy to win the game, especially when he was one of the few who knew they were all playing.

Somberwort was common enough in the northern latitudes, where Lazeran had spent much of the last few years, but this far south it wouldn’t be known by any but the most learned of herbalists. It was, generally, a perfectly harmless plant. Many of the northern lords used it for tea, enjoying the hint of sweetness it added to their cups. It eased anxiety, relaxed muscles, and was sometimes used in homemade remedies for coughs and aches.

Luthar’s eyes went wide, and he shook his head as though to clear it. Lazeran’s impossibly sharp vision revealed Luthar’s irises dilating.

Somberwort wasn’t dangerous alone, especially to the northern lords. Lazeran had only discovered one interesting detail about the plant when going through an old lore book. When combined with Vireleaf, a herb which grew exclusively in the far southern reaches of the continent, Somberwort turned deadly.

Luthar’s hands started to shake.

Lazeran blinked, and a new sight was revealed, a deeper reality hidden from mere humans. He saw the thin lines of Luthar’s nervous system, spreading from his mind and down his spine, all the way out to his fingers and toes. It burned as the combination of Vireleaf and Somberwort attacked it. The trembling grew in severity until Luthar’s whole body was shaking. One of Denithor’s house guards rushed to the advisor’s side and tried to still him. Bertran looked away, as though the approaching death of his advisor was nothing more than an inconvenience that endangered his enjoyment of the meal.

Lazeran took aim with his crossbow, eager to finish the task King Redmond had set before him. He pulled gently on the trigger, and the arrow struck Stonhaven in the chest, piercing his heart and killing him instantly.

Lazeran stood tall for a moment and allowed Stonhaven’s house guard to take him in.

“An assassin from Denithor!”

“Avenge the king!”

The shouts from House Denithor rang out in opposition.

“Poison! They’ve poisoned Luthar!”

“I’ll have my revenge!”

“House Denithor, rally to Bertran! To Bertran!”

The dining hall exploded into chaos as swords were drawn, and the battle lines hastily formed on opposite sides of the long table. Lazeran dropped the crossbow and ran down the stairs. He drew his own sword as he entered the fray on the side of House Denithor, protecting their giant oaf of a leader.

His caution proved unnecessary. Bertran was one of the first to draw his steel, and it seemed that he found the meal much improved by the addition of blood and death. He fell among Stonhaven’s guards with glee. Despite the danger he put himself in, House Denithor’s captain of the guard proved well-versed in protecting his bloodthirsty king. He directed his guards to form a wall behind Bertran, preventing any vengeful guards from sneaking behind Stonhaven’s honored guest. He also remembered to order two guards to clutch Luthar’s spasming form between them, for the king did not.

Bertran led the way through the castle, though there was little fighting once they escaped the dining hall.

They encountered some guards fighting in the courtyard, but the majority of the house forces had been stationed inside the castle walls. Once the last of House Stonhaven guards were broken and scattered, House Denithor mounted their horses and disappeared into the night, pushing hard so they might reach their borders before a larger force caught them.

Lazeran accompanied them to the stables, keeping out of sight of the captain. In the confusion surrounding the stables, he slipped into the shadows and changed into his third, most invisible costume of the night. He waited until the last of Denithor’s horses was beyond the walls, then emerged as a simple beggar.

He breathed in the fresh air beyond the castle walls and allowed himself a smile. King Redmond would be pleased, a war between Stonhaven and Denithor assured, which would allow him to sweep through the aftermath, adding the two kingdoms to Varidon.

More importantly, Lazeran had come closer to the truth of the world. He’d seen into Luthar, touched something real. In time, he would learn how to more than just see. He’d control, and the world would bow to his will. He was close now.

His senses remained sharpened, the way they’d been when the assassination had been in progress.

This was always his favorite part, when he enjoyed the rush that ran through his body but had completed his obligations. He walked through the quiet night, the call of the owl and the wolf in the distance reverberating in his bones. He closed his eyes as he walked, immersing his senses in this wonderful and malleable world.

And then he felt it.

A faint heartbeat. Not his own, which pounded slow and steady. This one raced and fluttered, like a hare fleeing and darting in different directions. It grew fainter as he listened, fleeing the range of his senses, yet it felt close enough to touch.

He stopped and focused his full attention on the unfamiliar sensation. A clearer image formed in his mind’s eye, the heart racing to survive, but connected to a nervous system that burned with poison, threatening to torch the mind that had guided two generations of kings.

Lazeran’s eyes snapped open and he swore. Weak as heart and body were, the fire within the nervous system faded, and the heart contained enough strength to propel the body forward. If nothing was done, Luthar would live to see the sunrise, threatening to unravel months of Lazeran’s planning through sheer stubbornness.

Bertran without Luthar was a war-hungry fool. His advisor’s death wouldn’t cause him to grieve, but it would give him an excuse to fight, and without Luthar’s moderating influence, war was as good as guaranteed. Bertran advised by Luthar was a threat, a meld of mind and muscle that could easily grow a kingdom worthy of opposing Varidon.

Lazeran sprinted after his prey, but stopped after a few dozen paces. It didn’t matter how fast or how strong he was. He wouldn’t catch the fleeing horses on foot.

He cursed his foolishness and all the fates. Somberwort and Vireleaf had struck him as untraceable and clever, but maybe it had been too clever. Maybe Luthar hadn’t been chewing as much Vireleaf as Lazeran thought, or maybe the old advisor was simply tougher than he looked. Some men didn’t die easy, their grip on life stronger than their grip on their swords. All that mattered now was that Luthar still lived, his life more consequential than Stonhaven’s.

He’d failed. Not for the first time, but for the first time in many years, and his sharpened senses, the ones that could see into the true nature of life, faded as the failure grew in his mind. He reached for a truth that couldn’t be grasped in his hand as power leaked from his pores like sweat on a hot day.

No.

Lazeran shook his head and steadied his breathing. He stood in the middle of the road and closed his eyes. The most important journey of his life was almost over, and he wouldn’t give up when he was so close. He stretched his senses and narrowed his focus.

Paradox washed over him. The racing heartbeat grew fainter as the distance between hunter and hunted increased, but he swore he could reach out and touch it, their connection bound by some force unaffected by distance. So he reached out and wrapped his hand around the heart.

Lazeran recoiled as he felt it in his hand, the muscle pounding fast and erratically, but still strong. It was there, as real as if he had bent down and picked up a stone.

Unrealized potentials unravelled and drifted around him and within him, a power waiting for him to grasp. The air around him vibrated like the string of a harp plucked too hard. The hairs on his arms stood straight up. Above him, the clouds that had obscured all but the brightest stars swirled above his head, a circle of clear night sky showing through.

He squeezed the heart in his hand and it was done.

Luthar’s heart surrendered and the fire within his nerves died, lacking the fuel to burn.

The connection which had bound Lazeran and Luthar vanished like a puff of smoke blown away by the wind, severed by death.

Lazeran opened his eyes and fell to his knees, his body barely his own anymore. Whatever he had touched, whatever he had controlled, coursed through him like a rushing river. It couldn’t be contained, and there was no question of returning to what he’d been before. The past couldn’t be recovered.

The future, though, was wide open, rich with possibilities he’d never dared consider.

Light flashed and burned his eyes. He closed them, but it didn’t matter. White-hot fire burned him from toe to crown, forging the power within him into something harder and sharper, no longer a nebulous understanding but a weapon the like the world had never seen before. A roaring crack of thunder announced his rebirth to the world.

If House Denithor witnessed the lightning and thunder, they only ran faster from it. Stonhaven, mired in grief behind their thick walls, remained oblivious. Born without witnesses, he still understood that he wasn’t alone, that there were others who understood, who had the power to shape the world to their whims.

The hairs on his arm rested flat, and as he stood he studied the scorch marks that surrounded him. His body was unharmed, as were the ragged clothes on his back. The clouds drifted lazily overhead, and he followed them.

Lazeran was as dead as the servant Lyle, nothing more than a disguise he’d held on to for all of his life. He shed the story of the man as easily as he’d shed his guard’s uniform earlier that night, and it mattered even less, for a new name didn’t even cost the few coins the uniform had.

From the broken and bloody castle of House Stonhaven emerged something new, a power the world had never seen before, birthed from death.