Satern, Fir of Marla: 33 Xiven

An excitement this palpable, where his heart beat all the way to his fingertips and erased every other sensation, was surreal. A lanky woman all in white took their address and marked it off on a list, then gestured for Dhekk and Kayin to step beside her and walk through the unfolded, metal doors of this giant tower.

In addition to the rush of warm air that greeted them upon entering, was this wall of sound. Different mechanical things producing rhythms Kayin had never heard before. Music, but with no vocalist. Lively, to where people in small groups performed coordinated movements to go along with the consistent beats. Centered in this tower was a stage, upon which half a dozen or so people stood with different—what Kayin assumed were—instruments; the way they didn’t look at each other, but moved in sync even when their eyes were completely closed, was awe-inspiring.

Being distracted by the music, Kayin didn’t notice Dhekk break off to another side of the tower. Amongst the different draped silks on the wall were several other doors leading in and out of this celebration; only the northernmost wall held a spiral staircase. Was the council up there, in one of the upper floors, or were they down here, enjoying the different scents and sounds?

Kayin let his feet wander for him. As more people registered with the front door to confirm their identities, the air grew stiff and stuffy, until there were hundreds of lavishly dressed Tornah citizens squeezed into never being more than an arms-length apart. Between the sets of doors that let in moments of a slightly cooler breeze were tables of finger-food. Little hunks of meat on toothpicks, curled leaves full of fruit slices, and even these tiny cups full of different, bubbly liquids.

As Kayin examined the different tables of food—some of which seemed dedicated to decadent sweets—he did catch the eye of a familiar friend. Karsarath gave him a wide smile and a nod before he returned to chatting with a stout woman that wore an immense amount of jewelry and metals on her ears and neck; possibly the owner to The Pointy End. Kayin returned the greeting, then grabbed for a toothpick and began to look around the crowd of this gala.

Tornah citizens of all ages, even a few younger than Kayin, fully enjoyed the accommodations with wide smiles and boisterous laughs. A few people he did recognize as shop keeps that would open right around the time he and Dhekk would make their morning run.

As he tried to memorize the faces of the different gala-goers, attempted to match them to people he’d met before, Kayin kept the assassin at the corner of his eye. Though now that he vaguely watched her interact with others, doubt grew in his stomach. This was a charming woman trading jokes with strangers. And now that he saw others, she wasn’t the only one that had leather embellishments on her outfit. Still, her face….

Would it be possible there were twins, separated at birth, where one lived in Tornah and another became an assassin that targeted poor children in villages?

He tucked the sarcastic thought away, and instead began to focus on the individuals around. He targeted people around Dhekk’s age, introduced himself proudly: “Hello, I’m Kayin. You are?”

A clothier named Ivar, a chef named Phirya, an off-duty guard, a school teacher, a librarian. He paid little attention to what the individuals actually said while spoke to them, but watched their gazes travel to his cheek, to his scars, on more than one occasion. Generally, the older people looked at him with a form of pity. A few even boldly asked if the scars from “duty”—assuming he was a soldier of some sort. Those assumptions were actually kind of pleasant; no one assumed he got these scars from being a defiant runaway.

Still, Kayin kept the familiar woman in the corner of his eye; if she moved on to do something else, so did he. After his fourth helping of whatever this delicious, spicy thing on a toothpick was, he finally got an opportunity to talk to someone she had earlier. But the most interesting thing about this circling woman didn’t reveal itself in any of the repeated conversations Kayin attempted to create, but maybe an hour into the party when she disappeared from view completely.

Kayin kept his breathing even, attempted to keep his racing thoughts under control. He’d made eye contact with Dhekk earlier, but they were too far away to communicate much other than a grimace and a shake of the head. He’d gotten nowhere with increasingly boring conversations—though, an upgrade from the last gala he went to, since no one cornered him and bullied him to tears. So that was nice.

The band in the center of the room lingered on a final note, then reveled in applause and cheers from the people around. Kayin kept his head on a swivel as they introduced someone from the council to make a speech.

A burly man in silks that embellished plate armor introduced himself as a council member and general of the army, began his speech with high praise of all the individual shops that aided in the creation of this party.

Kayin instead watched the crowd, looked for anyone not paying attention to General Hickard—well, anyone doing what he was doing, essentially.

Maybe after having the immense amount of bad luck in his life, Kayin was granted a boon. Maybe because he didn’t think of the gods that often, that he didn’t curse them when everyone else did, that they now decided to grant him just this tiny hint:

The brown-haired woman that Kayin had been watching so carefully materialized near the back of the crowd on the opposite of the room, near a wall with emerald green drapes. She reached forward to a blonde woman in a deep purple gown, tapping on her on the shoulder. When the woman turned around to acknowledge her, the assassin dematerialized into the silks again. The blonde didn’t react to this sudden use of Cigam, but instead turned an uninterested to stare at General Hickard; her lips moved, as if still engaging in conversation. She adjusted the shawl on her arms, frowning, uncomfortable. There was a clear, murmured back and forth with the invisible assassin. Associates? A clue, nonetheless. They weren’t too different in age—the blonde younger and maybe in her thirties. Dhekk’s age.

With his heart racing in his throat, Kayin stepped back into the crowd a bit more, protecting himself with the dense population and slowly, step by step, made his way to that side of the room.

Applause to General Hickard’s toasts made moving amongst people a little easier. With every few steps he took to snake his way to the walls of the tower, it almost seemed like the woman in purple took just as many to maintain the distance of the entire room between them. Casual, smooth, as if just attempting to get a better view. She never looked at him, but he got the distinct feeling that she knew he was watching. As he circled the room and people offered comments to her, either about General Hickard’s speech or her regal appearance, she always adjusted herself so that her back never faced Kayin. It looked too purposeful to be coincidence.

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The instruments sprung to life again, a fast-paced, joyful tune in a response to General Hickard’s obviously agreeable announcements. Kayin picked up the pace, no longer skirted around the back once people began to dance and converse again.

The brunette assassin didn’t reappear; he hoped it wasn’t a stretch to assume Dhekk had at least noticed this, too, and was doing something helpful. Maybe Karsarath did. But for whatever reason, Kayin put his full attention on this woman that almost avoided him, and made it his mission to approach her, fully.

They were the same height, he noticed when he was only maybe six feet away. She spoke to Ivar, the shop keep that Kayin met earlier, who now stuffed his mouth full of some sort of crunchy pastry. Easy enough. Even though Ivar was essentially a stranger, seeing someone familiar while he approached did ease his stomach a little.

“Hi, Ivar,” Kayin started carefully as he stepped up beside the blonde woman, “I think your wife is looking for you. I saw her over there.”

“Oh! I bet she wants to dance. She loves this song. Thank you!” the man with more fingers than hair nodded to him. “Please excuse me.” After a polite bow, Ivar excused himself, wiped the crumbs off of his chest, and began to push his way through the crowd.

Kayin stared at the side of the blonde woman’s face, waiting for her to acknowledge him, but instead he just watched her scowl. It took her a full moment, but eventually, she turned to face him fully, brilliant blue eyes cold and without any noticeable expression. He could at least tell, from staring at Dhekk so often, that this was a skill she worked very hard to master.

“Hello,” she said carefully. She took a step back, adjusted her purple shawl, waited for him to say something. Kayin stared at her; sure, this was rude beyond measure, but he had to give her plenty of time to look uncomfortable—but she remained stoic, maintained eye contact, never straying. Never examining him from up and down for being a stranger, or stared at his cheek.

“Hi,” Kayin said finally. His voice was too soft, so he cleared his throat. “I think we have a mutual acquaintance.”

“And where is she now?” Her voice was smooth, but not unbothered. An edge to her voice, an impatience. Kayin squinted at her. It was difficult to decide at the moment: was she Xiven, or just a step closer? The right age, seemed to react to him—and Tidesa said he would meet Xiven….

“Our mutual acquaintance?” he confirmed. The woman nodded. “It’s a safe assumption to think she’s hiding, invisible somewhere, waiting for me to come out so she can try to kill me again.” He somehow managed to keep his voice strong: “Better lighting this time. Hopefully she gets her actual target.”

She sighed and crossed her arms with her shawl; finally, she let her eyes drift from his head to his toes, then shook her head.

“You’re so young,” she mumbled through a sigh. Kayin couldn’t contain his surprise; this didn’t phase her, she just seemed to deflate. “Tell me, Kayin, why is it always up to the younger generation to clean up the mess of the previous generations?” He couldn’t speak. To be addressed directly like that, it stunned him to idleness. “Are you under the impression you’re cleaning my mess, too? Or have you figured out there’s more at play?” He almost choked at her brazen questions.

“You—if you left Yatora alone, it wouldn’t have gotten this far,” was all he could manage to say. The heat that rushed forth, a buried anger and despair he didn’t think would come back—His fingers and toes went fully numb, now.

Xiven shook her head. “Still learning, I see,” she said quietly, almost sadly. “Well, we’ve fulfilled everything that’s been predicted. The rest is a mystery, now. You might actually have time to get to your friend.” She shrugged with one shoulder.

“What?” Kayin’s eyes grew wide; he looked past her, to each of the doors, frantically searching the sea of faces for the assassin he lost track of.

Across the way, his sudden movements were noticed. Karsarath looked over at him, halting the conversation he was currently carrying with someone by the bubbly drinks. After another quick once-over of each of the doors, Kayin vaguely became aware of the blob of purple leaving his peripheral vision. But the blue jacket he searched for, the one similar to his own, was nowhere to be found.

After shoving the panic and worry down for so long, it all surfaced; Kayin’s legs moved on their own accord, taking him to the nearest door. He stepped into the cooler air, searching back and around the building for anything out of the ordinary. He’d circled the entire tower, ignoring the well-dressed couples that snuck away for quiet moments and the families turning in early.

Kayin made it to the northern side of the tower, where there were no doors. The street lamp here was snuffed, a small plume of smoke still rising from the wick against the distant lights.

“Dhekk?” Kayin called despite himself. When he stepped forward, into the glow of the moons, his foot splotched. He knew what it was; it was different than just the sound of a puddle. Denser, stickier, familiar. Kayin looked down to see that he’d stepped in a puddle of blood. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, but it wasn’t from the rusty air.

“Kayin!” At the sound of Karsarath calling him, Kayin spun around just in time to raise his arms. A sharp shing gave him just a little more cover, catching the blade of a short sword on his hidden dagger just inches from his face. Grunting, Kayin tried to shove back his attacker with the short sword caught between his bracer and his blade. The brunette from years ago pulled out her sword with a shout.

She was shorter than him, but far more powerful, and her blade was unbloodied. After pulling back, she retaliated, swinging one way, then another. The cold air burned Kayin’s chest after another one of her false slashes; vaguely, he knew she’d gotten him because her sword now offered a tinge of red in the night, but he still lunged forward with his arm to try and jab at her. If it weren’t for the momentum of his initial attack, he wouldn’t have had the strength to move forward. As he sliced a good bit into her main arm, his strength failed him.

Kayin stumbled forward, onto his hands and knees. The dagger on his wrist clattered against the stone, shoving him off balance and onto his side. The brunette yelped again; Kayin couldn’t look up to see, but he felt the swinging swords over his head, heard the clanging of Karsarath’s sword against hers—and the moment Karsarath called for Kayin again, the sound of footsteps retreating.

Was everything going faster or slower? It was difficult to tell. All Kayin was truly aware of was that he now added to the puddle of blood, from his lips, from the now open wound on his chest. In one moment, everything stopped, and in the next, Karsarath was at his side, pulling at his arms, his jacket to take it off.

“Kayin, come on, put pressure on it!” Now his arms were cold to the exposed air; Karsarath pulled up his hands and pressed them into his jacket to keep it close, demonstrating to keep them there. Kayin’s chest stung, burned, ached, as if the assassin slashed him again and again still. “What is—” After Karsarath shoved Kayin’s jacket at him, he hesitated, pulling at the pockets. “Oh, good planning, Kayin!” And right as his head began to spin, Karsarath shoved something at his lips: a bottle. A health potion. A potion he, personally, never unpacked from Dhekk’s backpack.

More footsteps sounded, entering the dark alleyway. Karsarath jumped at the sound, lifting his sword, ready to defend from crouched on the ground.

Standing in the silhouette of the party’s lights, stood a woman in blue with short, black hair. Now that Kayin stared at her, the health potion tingled in its usual way to indicate it was starting to get to work. He recognized her, too. Not from the party, not from trying to assassinate him, but from his morning runs. This was the woman that was following them.

“Kayin,” the woman asked, “where’s Dhekk?”