Assassin's Rise by CJ Whrite

to Altmoor.
    “These two letters are
to go to my village, Seven Streams. They are for my Mother and my
Master, Apothecary Pelron. I’ve told them that I’ve passed the
exam, and that I will be going to the east for five years, learning
about their healing techniques. I trust you to keep the truth from
them.”
    Altmoor accepted the
letters, a puzzled look on his face. “I can understand why you
wrote that, but what will you do after five years, lad? You can’t
hide it forever.”
    “I can, and I will.
You’ve said yourself that there is no news in the city over what
has happened. The crime is hidden to protect a noble, and no one
knows my name. In five years, I will have a sick house in the poor
quarter of Darma, free to visit for all commoners. At that time I
will bring my Mother and Master to Darma and show it to them.”
Roland spoke with a single-minded determination, his eyes never
wavering in the slightest.
    Altmoor dropped his
gaze and stared into the candle flame. He could almost believe it
when Roland spoke like that, but he knew that it would not be that
easy. To even get to the stage of opening a sick house – and that
while in a dark cell wrongfully accused – would be an unbelievable
accomplishment. To make it free for all commoners would require a
wealth that Roland would not be able to gather in his lifetime. But
as long as you dreamed, no matter how impossible it was, it meant
you could still face tomorrow. He just hoped the truth would not
break Roland.
    “I will do as you ask,”
he said.
    Roland took much longer
to write the third letter. He addressed and sealed it, handing it
to Altmoor. “This letter is for Captain Rage of the Swallow. I am
sorry to ask this of you, but you will have to wait at the harbour
for his ship to come in. I don’t know when that will be.” He
reached into his pocket and held out Carla’s brooch. “Tell him that
this was a gift Carla made for me, and that I entrust it to his
care.”
    Altmoor could see the
struggle on Roland’s face as he held out the brooch, and Altmoor
accepted the brooch with shaking hands. “It will be done,” he said,
his voice trembling. If he were only twenty years younger, he would
call his old comrades and burn Vanderman from his estate. “You are
too old for dreams, you old fool,” he chided himself softly.
    Roland sat with his
head bowed, his right hand resting on the remaining sheave of
parchment. Altmoor and Jeklor watched him in silence.
    “The knife please,
Altmoor,” he said and held his hand out.
    Altmoor hesitated for a
moment, then reached into the fold of his robes and handed Roland a
small knife. Roland was no coward; he could trust him with it, even
if the lad’s spirits were low.
    It looked like a
skinning knife, the blade curved and razor sharp. Roland placed the
blade on his left palm and pulled it back. The blood was dark and
hot flowing down his arm. It pooled in the crook of his elbow
before spilling over. As the heavy droplets struck the stone floor,
the sound sang loud in the silent, cold room.
    “What are you doing?”
Altmoor asked, startled. His eyes followed the crimson tears path
through the air, watching as the blood mixed with filth on the
stone floor.
    Roland’s eyes narrowed,
a vortex of loss and anger enveloping him. “The final letter will
be written in blood,” he said.
    Jeklor shifted
uncomfortable against the wall; Roland’s expression reminded him of
a wild beast hunting his prey.
    Roland wiped the ink
from the quill and dipped it in his blood. He wrote slowly,
deliberately, often wetting the quill in the cut on his palm. He
finished the letter and wrapped the cloth around his bleeding hand.
He sat holding his hand in his lap, reading over what he had
written several times, his eyes cold.
     
    Know that the moment
you put your hands on the girl, your life was forfeit.
    Know that I swear by my
blood to visit you within three years.
    Know that each breath
of every moment is a breath closer to my