Read Online The Misbegotten (An Assassin's Blade Book 1) by Justin DePaoli - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Justin DePaoli
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send you to… I cannot speak for them.”
Chapter Six
T here’s nothing quite like riding in the back of a wooden cart with your hands roped together behind your back. Every bump sent my ass into the air, only to come crashing back down on the splintery seat. Turns were great fun. Without a hand to brace myself, my head would careen into the side posts. Hopefully I wouldn’t be dribbling and answering questions with grunts by the end of this journey.
The despair my brother and I displayed didn’t go unnoticed by nature. The sun had gone into hiding and took the warmth with it. The clouds shifted from a milky white to a gloomy gray, spewing out fat drops of rain. This was the kind of rain you feel exploding on the back of your neck, ice oozing out and shivering across your shoulders.
We’d left Erior first thing in the morning, loaded into a cart like fish plucked from the ocean and on the way to cutting boards. Braddock wasn’t even kind enough to make an appearance and wish us well. Neither was the enigma, Rivon Eyrie. So many questions for that man. The easy way out was to call him treasonous, hold a grudge till I died — which very well could happen sooner than later — and be done with it. But the danger at looking at the world through a black-and-white lens is that you miss the grays, and it’s there, in that bleak prism, you find the twists and turns that give reason to the unreasonable, imagination to the unimaginable, and logic to the illogical.
Anton sat across from me, head slumped like a knight unseated during a joust. Dull-eyed and droopy-faced. It was eerily similar to the way he looked when our father and mother were at our feet, bloodied and lifeless. The only thing missing was tears.
I was always stronger than my brother. It seemed like nothing could undo me. An assassin doesn’t live for thirty years without finding himself in a few… unfortunate situations. Retaining control is vital.
Even when it seems like everything has been stolen from you and your well of luck has gone dry, there’s always a way out. I usually knew of those ways, although sometimes they snuck up on me, like Sybil freeing me from Edenvaile’s prison.
But Writmire Fields — my destination — made my situation grim. Slavers controlled the fields, populating them with rapists, murderers, thieves and other societal misfits that get shipped to them for free. In exchange for the humanitarian aid, the donors get reduced rates on goods bought from the slavers. It’s the game at its finest.
“My face itches,” Anton said.
“Why are you telling me? I can try to kick you to relieve the itch, if that’s what you want.”
“You’ve done quite enough.”
“Thought I could trust an old Rot.”
Bump went the wagon, and smack went our heads. Anton grumbled. “An old Rot?”
“Rivon,” I explained.
“He’s a bloody rooster keeper.”
“Look out!” I hollered, sliding across the seat and into my brother. A long patch of dimpled mud lay up ahead. The wagon plodded over it, rickety wheels tumbling into the deep dimples and rocking the cedar frame like an angry gale spurning a baby bird’s first flight. Sitting close to my brother allowed us to hook our legs together, centering us on the seat so we wouldn’t end up with cracked skulls and be dead behind the eyes before we arrived at the slavers’ camp.
The barren field leveled out again. “Anyway,” I said, “he was a Rot before he was Erior’s lead fowl attendant. He’d never do this to me willingly… Pristia likely had her grubby hand in it.”
My brother sighed disgustingly. “Oh, would you stop with the nonsense? Pristia’s not a conjurer, you dolt.”
I offered up my best admonishing grin. “Just like you, Anton. Pretend the world’s a perfect little haven. Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s well and good.”
“Better than living my life in raging suspicion, you unstable, paranoid fuck.”
Oh, if I had my hands free. “Paranoid? Paranoid ?
Chapter Six
T here’s nothing quite like riding in the back of a wooden cart with your hands roped together behind your back. Every bump sent my ass into the air, only to come crashing back down on the splintery seat. Turns were great fun. Without a hand to brace myself, my head would careen into the side posts. Hopefully I wouldn’t be dribbling and answering questions with grunts by the end of this journey.
The despair my brother and I displayed didn’t go unnoticed by nature. The sun had gone into hiding and took the warmth with it. The clouds shifted from a milky white to a gloomy gray, spewing out fat drops of rain. This was the kind of rain you feel exploding on the back of your neck, ice oozing out and shivering across your shoulders.
We’d left Erior first thing in the morning, loaded into a cart like fish plucked from the ocean and on the way to cutting boards. Braddock wasn’t even kind enough to make an appearance and wish us well. Neither was the enigma, Rivon Eyrie. So many questions for that man. The easy way out was to call him treasonous, hold a grudge till I died — which very well could happen sooner than later — and be done with it. But the danger at looking at the world through a black-and-white lens is that you miss the grays, and it’s there, in that bleak prism, you find the twists and turns that give reason to the unreasonable, imagination to the unimaginable, and logic to the illogical.
Anton sat across from me, head slumped like a knight unseated during a joust. Dull-eyed and droopy-faced. It was eerily similar to the way he looked when our father and mother were at our feet, bloodied and lifeless. The only thing missing was tears.
I was always stronger than my brother. It seemed like nothing could undo me. An assassin doesn’t live for thirty years without finding himself in a few… unfortunate situations. Retaining control is vital.
Even when it seems like everything has been stolen from you and your well of luck has gone dry, there’s always a way out. I usually knew of those ways, although sometimes they snuck up on me, like Sybil freeing me from Edenvaile’s prison.
But Writmire Fields — my destination — made my situation grim. Slavers controlled the fields, populating them with rapists, murderers, thieves and other societal misfits that get shipped to them for free. In exchange for the humanitarian aid, the donors get reduced rates on goods bought from the slavers. It’s the game at its finest.
“My face itches,” Anton said.
“Why are you telling me? I can try to kick you to relieve the itch, if that’s what you want.”
“You’ve done quite enough.”
“Thought I could trust an old Rot.”
Bump went the wagon, and smack went our heads. Anton grumbled. “An old Rot?”
“Rivon,” I explained.
“He’s a bloody rooster keeper.”
“Look out!” I hollered, sliding across the seat and into my brother. A long patch of dimpled mud lay up ahead. The wagon plodded over it, rickety wheels tumbling into the deep dimples and rocking the cedar frame like an angry gale spurning a baby bird’s first flight. Sitting close to my brother allowed us to hook our legs together, centering us on the seat so we wouldn’t end up with cracked skulls and be dead behind the eyes before we arrived at the slavers’ camp.
The barren field leveled out again. “Anyway,” I said, “he was a Rot before he was Erior’s lead fowl attendant. He’d never do this to me willingly… Pristia likely had her grubby hand in it.”
My brother sighed disgustingly. “Oh, would you stop with the nonsense? Pristia’s not a conjurer, you dolt.”
I offered up my best admonishing grin. “Just like you, Anton. Pretend the world’s a perfect little haven. Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s well and good.”
“Better than living my life in raging suspicion, you unstable, paranoid fuck.”
Oh, if I had my hands free. “Paranoid? Paranoid ?
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