The House of Crows

Cassian’s hands moved erratically in the crimson water. The sound of sloshing stabbed unnervingly in his ears, as if the sound squeezed at his brain. Through broken breaths, Cassian scrubbed his bloody hands. It kept flashing over and over again in his mind. 

The dagger, the squelch, the thick warmth seeping into his clothes.

Those eyes, full of life, slowly turned to black right in front of him. Cassian regretted staring, but his eyes wouldn’t look away even when he begged his mind to. He was just a boy like him, maybe only a summer younger. He had everything ahead of him.

’What of his father?’ Cassian’s chest tightened. ’Mother, brother, sister…’

Cassian gagged. His fingers gripped the rim of the wooden barrel hard, dirt and splinters dug under his nails.

’Father. Father trusts me. I will succeed. He will be proud.’ Cassian attempted to collect himself. He sniffled, then spat into the red water. ’I feel sick.’

Cassian let out a hard forced exhale. He closed his eyes. Finally his breath slowed, but only by a little.

’I will do it.’ He clenched his jaw. ’I have to do it.’

Cassian ran his hand over his face, then turned over his shoulder.

‘He is still there…’

Another gag. Then a long exhale followed as he forced himself to face the body. It laid there completely still, the muscle spasms had stopped, but the memory still remained fresh in Cassian’s mind.

He forced a step toward the boy. Then another half-step before he faltered. He shut his eyes hard and curled his fingers into a fist. His broken stride took him to the body against his will. He knew he made it when his foot met liquid. A half-breath left him as his eyes opened. Cassian stared right at him. His black eyes still stared at the ceiling, on his cheek a trail made its way through dirt, made from a tear that had already dried. His last.

The door opened.

Cassian jolted. His hand—suddenly free of its uncontrolled shake—moved to the dagger on his hip.

“You could’ve made it a bit cleaner.” Silver eyes gleamed from under streaks of wet black hair.

Ricard.

Cassian lowered his guard, he swallowed hard but did not reply.

“If we are to make it on time, I suggest you hurry up and take his clothes and get changed,” He said flatly, not batting an eye at the corpse by his feet. He stopped and looked at Cassian for a moment.

Cassian’s fingers trembled, blood soaked all the way through his clothes, his eyes wet.

Ricard’s expression softened. “Your first kill,” he started, then wiped Cassian’s tears away, “It is a big thing. Something that will never leave you. But you know there was no other choice right? We do what we do for something bigger than us.”

Cassian sniffled, and nodded.

A sympathetic smirk stretched on Ricard’s face. He placed a hand on Cassian’s shoulder. “You did good, little brother. The hard part is over,” he said, “now we just find the guy, rough him up a bit, and bring him to father. Easy.”

Ricard watched as Cassian straightened himself. He could tell every movement was painful for him, but he let him feel it.

“Brother,” Cassian finally said through his broken voice, “he cried for help—“

“Shush, brother,” Ricard interrupted, “it is done. He is dead. You did that. You did it for a purpose, the young lad was just a pawn, a pawn that needed to be moved. We do not concern ourselves with pawns. We care about a higher purpose than that.”

“What must be done,” Cassian said, his eyes low.

“What must be done,” Ricard assured.

Cassian nodded.

“We may not share the same mother, Cas, but you are my blood. Father’s blood. At heart you are as much of a Vaelthorne as I, so you can do anything I can do.” Ricard poked his finger at Cassian’s chest. “Believe in yourself. Believe in your blood. Because you have it in you. Do you understand what I am saying, little brother?”

Cassian nodded again.

Ricard’s expression changed. “Now, come on.”

The cart was all set. The furs loaded, the horse calm and ready for the last stretch to the city.

Ricard donned his new clothes he had acquired the same way as Cassian. Only from a bigger victim.

Cassian’s new clothes fit his frame snuggly. As if it was made for him. Cassian tugged at his tunic, uncomfortable not by its fabric, but by the unsettling feeling that followed by wearing it.

”Hop on the back, we are only a few hours away from Silver Crest,” Ricard said, “I found some salted pork in the satchel there, take some, you earned it. And when we get to the inn I will buy you an ale.”

Cassian did as he was told. He hopped onto the back of the cart, sat neatly on wrapped furs. The salted pork tasted like metal, but Cassian forced it down even when his body wanted to reject it. Food was the last thing on his mind.

With a whinny, the horse pulled the cart. Ricard in front, he hummed by himself as they moved down the forest path.

Cassian sat in silence, salted pork in his mouth that never yielded no matter how many times he chewed.

Silver Crest sat upon a cliff overlooking the Glimmering Sea. The white buildings gleamed in the sunlight, as the screeching of a flock of seagulls roamed above. Echoes of chatter, dogs barking and the port bells chiming traveled through the air as they approached the tall gatehouse. A long banner of red hung proudly down from the battlements. White antlers surrounded by a golden crown made the insignia. House Silverton.

Atop stood archers, bows relaxed on their shoulders, but eyes sharp and scanning.

Cassian met their intrusive gazes from the cart, still chewing on his pork.

“Halt! State your purpose,” a voice shouted from the battlements.

”Hail,” Ricard greeted, “I am Doren, and this here is my helper, Finn. We bring furs from Bergstad. A special request by the Governor, Lord Ingram. He called for us specifically to supply seating furs for the tourney.”

“We were told about your shipment.” The guard leaned over the edge to take a closer look. “You bring more than what was agreed. Should save you from being half a day late. Pray that Lord Ingram is not upset.”

“Once he sees the quality of our work he will be most pleased, I assure you,” Ricard said with a grin.

The worn guard’s eyes locked on Cassian. He frowned as he studied the frail boy.

”Finn was it?” He asked.

Cassian took another bite of unchewable pork, then gave a silent nod.

“Finn Carrigan of Bergstad?” He added. “My, you have grown! Last I saw you, you were but a wee lad. Tell me, how old are you, boy?”

“Twelve and a half,” Cassian answered.

“Twelve already, huh.” The guard scratched his beard. “I know your father, boy, he is the best hunter I have ever seen. He shot a jackrabbit right between the eyes from fifty meters away when we were about your age. An incredible archer, I would’ve loved to have him under my command here. Be sure you ask him for me, boy, there is a lot of honor serving as a city guard. And coin too.”

Cassian swallowed hard. “It would be an honor, sir. I will tell him as soon as I return.”

”You are a good boy. Now get going, Lord Ingram will be waiting for you by the Half-Moon Tavern.” The guard bowed, then turned and raised a hand to signal.

The heavy wooden doors groaned open.

“And also!”

Cassian jumped at the sudden addition.

“Get yourselves some smoked sausage from Half-Moon. It’s the best meat you’ll get in this city.”

“Thanks for the advice, we will make sure to fill our bellies,” Ricard obliged loudly, then turned his gaze back down, ”almost there.” He mumbled something else under his breath that Cassian didn’t catch. Then he proceeded to give a wide smile to a passing guard as they made their way over a wooden bridge.

Underneath, a waterless moat, wooden spikes poking upward.

”I’ve told you this before, but I will say it again,” Ricard began, “you are no longer Cassian Vaelthorne. You are Finn. Forget everything and embrace this new identity. Become it. Remember Raziel’s training, remember father. We cannot fuck this up, understand? Or else father will whip me for making a mess of his plans.”

Cassian tossed the last of his pork into the moat, watching as it fell.

“I won’t disappoint you, brother.”