I have never feared an assassin, because I am not afraid of death. However, that isn’t to say they do not pull my nervousness to the surface, where it crawls over my flesh like an oil slick. Today there were two in the square, the first one that I had noticed was wearing a mask, but not paying me much heed. The second, however, had a dagger painted on his forehead, and he was headed straight for me.I thought that perhaps the dream had brought him to me, the promise of a son whose words had slayed me as if it were an assassin’s blade.
I had the cards out for inspection, as I often do days before repair takes place, but once I saw the man was moving quickly and with purpose in my direction, all thought was lost, save the glass my hand hit, my slow motioned focus moving from painted dagger, to the shards that had hit the brick, spraying water on the hem of my robes. Funny the things we notice when death is so close.
He slid into the chair across from me, a man I had seen on an occasion or two, and I knew immediately what it was he wished from me. The cards were laid out and he chose, The Kur, The World, The Ace of Wands. Each was explained in turn, I whispering, curious eyes upon us.
When the reading was over, he grabbed my wrist, and for a moment I thought that yes, I was indeed breathing my last breath, but the pull was only extended to near the edge of the table where he still claimed a seat. Perhaps he thought that I would not accept the coin, one that was tainted with the scent of blood and death, but he was wrong. He pressed the open palm of my hand over the coin that lay on the table, I thinking that our meeting was at its end. However, with the claiming of the coin came a warning, or perhaps even a threat, that if ever the cards should reveal information of his caste, that I would find myself on the tip of an assassin’s blade. I nodded mutely, but it was not a nod in terms of acceptance, merely a nod of understanding. The cards do not follow the rules of men, no matter what is at stake. Not even for me.
I could not pull my gaze away from his, transfixed, as if I was seeing myself through his eyes. It wasn’t until he released my wrist that I was able to break the stare between us, released from the solitary dark pool I often fall into with readings, and once again aware of my surroundings.
I think for a time I was numbed, unable to feel anything and more drained then I usually feel after a reading, so I sat there, quietly, until a curious woman named Virginia caught my attention with her questions. She too, was prompted to draw a card. The Ten of Wands, Lord of Oppression.
The second assassin had made himself known, by taking a seat at the opposite end of the café’s covered porch, and after some time of idle chit chat with Nash and Billy, Virginia and Mare, chatter in which I’ve never been very good at, I took my leave, wanting to stop by the bakery and pick up cookies and cake for my favorite Scribes.
By the time I had started home, a basket on my arm filled with baked goods, the lamps had been lit and the streets were quickly deserting of bodies, save for one, the first assassin from the square, the one with the mask. He made no sound on his approach, a silent wraith with gloved fingers dragging along the side of the building, fingers that were dropped away when I thought he was past me, but it was only to circle around me, as a sleen does the prey he is about to devour.
Suddenly he was standing in front of me, staring down at me, silver colored eyes little more than gray pinpricks of light, seen through the mask. When his hand lifted, I did not pull back, but the touch that followed was not one that had been expected. The glove was pulled from his hand and he touched my cheek, I think, to see if I was real or merely a figment of his imagination. Intrigued that I did not pull back, and satisfied that I was indeed flesh and blood, his hand dropped away and his glove was replaced. I could already feel my blood leaving my hands, which were still tightly corded around the handle of the basket I carried. Somewhere amidst the fray of first words, perhaps mine, I had offered him a cookie, but he was more interested in what he had witnessed in the Square, his only answer being, ‘Read me.’
I was battling with an inner urgency to return to the house, someplace safe and without threat, and so it was I asked if I could meet him, preferably in daylight, in the gardens. He agreed and I could feel my fingers relaxing on baskets hold.
We parted ways and just when I thought I was safe, the house in view; I heard the words, the undeniable phrase that turned my blood to ice. ‘I will seek you, I will find you, I will see you..’
