Joy transposed by grief 

most often fades 

into a hatred of all things 

touched by light 

She had been in some dire situations in her life, but this was by far the worst in which she had ever found herself. 

Captured. 

In all the ways she thought her career might end, Ileana certainly would have never thought that it would be in the dungeons of the king himself. The thought that she might ever get caught—her, Ileana d’Amanova of the Guild—would have made her laugh, once. But now there was no time for laughing at this cruel turn of events. It was time for her to focus on her escape. 

The dungeon held a suffocating stench of mildew and rot. Moans echoed hauntingly down the corridor. The sounds of the dying, the cries of the repentant. Every whimper and odor filtered through the bars of the dank cell without resistance. 

Ileana sat cross-legged in the middle of the damp floor, her back upright and her hands relaxed on her thighs. Despite the stagnant weight of desolation permeating the air, she took in a deep breath. Her eyes were closed in an attempt to block out her surroundings. It helped somewhat, though when one particularly irate prisoner suddenly shrieked somewhere further down the outside corridor, she couldn't help but wince. 

This is not your fate, Ileana told herself. She took in another deep breath. 

Her thin trousers were soaked from the damp stone floor and her stomach rumbled uncomfortably; the past few days had certainly not been kind to her. She knew that she had been in this cell for at least four days, perhaps five. The guards stationed in the corridor alternated every twelve hours, as did her meals. The meager rations of hash were sometimes accompanied by a chunk of hard bread, but even then the food was not enough to sustain her for much longer. She could feel her body dwindling from dehydration and fatigue and, despite her efforts to calm her mind, her thoughts were growing more and more difficult to keep straight. 

All she knew was that she had to get out. 

In the last four days, sounds other than her fellow prisoners’ moans and expletives had seeped into her cell. Despite her limited view through the small barred window in the door, Ileana had been able to mark the passing of each guard as they made their rounds in the corridor. They passed frequently, their steps heavy and sure of themselves, and the amount of time between their passing told Ileana a lot of what she needed to know: the guard had likely been doubled since her arrival in the dungeons. 

There was a small part of her that acknowledged the unspoken, unintended compliment underlying her situation. After all, here she was in the prison of the king himself, and he viewed her with enough caution to double the guard on her cell. A small tingle of satisfaction mingled with her frustration about the whole matter. 

Ileana glanced toward a small, high window that gave her a severely limited view of the outside. It lay at ground level of one of the many courtyards that made up the royal grounds, and the only thing Ileana could truly see out of the tiny hole was a hint of cobbles and a weak shine of sunlight. But it was enough. The light told her many things. 

By the way the ray fell through the window, she knew that her cell faced the northeast. And it was late in the day, nearly dusk. 

Right on cue, the sound of clomping boots reached Ileana’s ears. She promptly and unceremoniously slumped to her side onto the damp floor. 

“How’s our little lady?” 

A gruff voice came from between the bars of the cell door, the tone full of a familiar derision. 

Ileana remained motionless. Her hair tickled her closed eyelids as she forced herself to breathe evenly. Without looking, she knew exactly which guard had spoken to her and it brought a small fission of aggravation into her stomach. When it came down to it, she had been hoping to avoid this one in particular. 

“Sleeping the day away, wench?” The guard spat in disgust, then loudly rapped his sword against the bars. “Get yourself up!” 

The sound of steel clattering on the metal of the door made Ileana’s jaw clench but still she kept her body motionless. The guard ceased his clamor and a weighted silence filled the air. Even the rest in the dungeon seemed to hold their collective breath, almost as if they knew that something was about to happen. After many moments of tense quiet, the guard strode away. 

Faintly, Ileana could make out a murmur of deep voices. She bit back a smile, ignoring the way her fatigued body felt cramped and bruised against the hard ground. Just as she figured, moments later two sets of footsteps neared her cell. Keys jangled and then the door creaked open. She nearly ceased to breathe altogether. 

“Is she dead?”  the second guard asked, his tone doubtful. 

“Pretending, more like.” 

Heavy footfalls neared her prone body. The rank scent of unwashed men wafted over her. She could hear his breathing, heavy and slightly phlegmy. Perhaps he was older, which could either be a good or a bad thing. 

Good if he was the kind of man whose body couldn’t keep up with his lengthening years. Bad if he had allowed experience to hone his body. 

She sensed the kick before it even hit her. Tensing her abdominal muscles, she anticipated the sharp blow to her stomach just in time to blunt the worst of the pain. Even so, her empty stomach contracted as her breath whooshed out of her lungs. 

Letting out a determined, breathless grunt, Ileana wrapped her arms around her assailant’s leg. He cursed as his weight was offset by hers, unable to catch himself as he fell on top of her. When the guard attempted to grab her, Ileana reacted on instinct and rammed the heel of her hand upward, effectively crushing his nose. The satisfying crunch beneath her palm was enough to make the near-suffocating weight of his body atop hers far worth it. 

It all happened in an instant. The guard at the door leapt into the cell and jerked her from the ground, while the fallen guard rolled off of her with his hands grasping his bloodied face. He howled in anger and pain combined. 

“You witch! Ungodly, cursed—!” 

“Shut up, de Drune,” ordered the other guard. 

He seized Ileana by the shoulders, dragging her from the ground. His voice was steady, but his eyes were ablaze with the heat of his disgust with her. 

“She isn’t even worth our anger. Her kind are like animals. Scrounging and biting like any creature trying to survive.” 

Ileana felt her own face redden with rage. She swung out her arm in an attempt to scratch his face, but he spun her about so that her back was pressed to his chest. The arm he wound about her tightened threateningly around her shoulders, and his other arm came around to crush her jaw in a relentless grip. 

“Calm yourself now, my lady,” he said in her ear. He made a disapproving tsking noise as if he were talking to a child. 

She writhed in his arms and stamped on the arch of his foot—and then she immediately remembered: they had taken her shoes days ago. Her bare heel found its mark on the top of his booth with decided force, but he only cursed and held her tighter. She let out a few choice words of her own. 

“You’d better watch that mouth of yours,” the second guard said darkly. 

He had risen from the ground and was holding his hand over his nose. Blood flowed freely down his face and a faint bruise was already collecting on either side of his broken bridge. Ileana felt a small sense of satisfaction at having accomplished at least one thing. 

“I will speak in any way I deem fit,” she said to him smoothly. 

Both men merely scoffed. 

“Be sure to tell the High Chancellor that,” the guard holding her said. He began to drag her toward the open door of her cell. 

“What?” she asked, her voice faltering slightly. She stopped struggling. 

“High Chancellor Plath wishes to speak with you. Before you so wisely lashed out, I was given orders to deliver you to him.” The guard spoke tersely, obviously displeased at having to explain anything to her. 

Ileana’s mind whirled. As the two guards escorted her out of the dungeon, she tamped down the fear rising in her throat. It threatened to spill out of her in a dangerous, uncontrollable way and she knew that she could not risk losing her senses to it. It would not help her at all to give in. Not now. 

Why would the High Chancellor himself request a meeting with her? Her mind spun as she considered his reasoning, an undeniable sinking sensation growing in her stomach as possibilities flashed through her mind. Had an execution date been set for her? Surely the High Chancellor would have no reason to be involved with her personally, though. Not for such a trivial matter.  

They passed through the torchlit corridors of the underground dungeons and, before too long, rose into the upper level of Kelbourn Castle. Ileana made mental notes of each turn and passage they took her through, not only to use in case of an escape but also to simply keep her mind from conjuring up more fear. She needed a clear head. Or as clear of a head as possible, despite her lacking meals of late. 

She steadied her breathing and relaxed in the guard’s hold, though he never released his iron grip on her manacled wrist. The spike in her adrenaline had at least cleared her mind somewhat. 

Finally, they stepped out of the last of what seemed like a maze of passages and entered a grand hall. The ceiling arched into gilded beams overhead, with illustrious frescoes of lilies and waterfalls adorning the panels in between. Inlaid on the floor was an intricate mosaic of cerulean and aquamarine, furthering the theme of oceanic beauty, and the walls were graced with floor length windows to the west that welcomed in the last fading light of the day. 

Ileana found herself wishing it were morning so she could get even a glimpse of the refreshing wash of morning sun. It had been too long since she had been blessed with the full strength of the sun’s rays. 

“Go fix yourself,” Ileana’s captor muttered gruffly to the bleeding guard. 

Ileana shot a wary glance at the second man, meeting his gaze without blinking. He eyed her reprovingly through swollen eyes. His skin was puffy, discolored. Stained with dried blood. Ileana allowed herself a small smile. The guard caught her look and his eyes narrowed in anger. He quickly spat at her feet and turned on his heel to stride back the way they had come. 

Her guard’s fingers tightened even more around her wrist and she winced, turning to glare at him. He regarded her coolly. 

“His lordship the High Chancellor will be here any moment. You will conduct yourself with whatever grace you possess,” he said this with obvious disdain, “and you will not speak unless he bids you speak. Understand?” 

Before Ileana could respond, a high voice beat her to it. “I am certain the girl is not as dull-witted as you so apparently think, Captain.” 

The guard whipped his head toward the front of the hall and Ileana followed his gaze. Her eyes alighted on a sallow, thin man seated on an oversized velvet chair. His yellow hair curled at his shoulders, and the plumed hat of royal office sat upon his head, looking like a precarious white swan in mid flight. It would have been an amusing sight had the High Chancellor not possessed the highly arched brow and imperious gaze of a man that knew cruelty and exercised it with relish. 

Her stomach rolling, hunger forgotten, Ileana dropped her eyes from his steely gaze. She had no doubt that this man expected nothing less than a servant’s humility from women and, for now, she was not willing to risk herself further by violating the boundaries set for the gentler sex. 

Even with her eyes lowered, she felt his stare upon her like the heat of a branding iron. 

Beside her, the guard bowed stiffly. He released her wrist at last, the manacles jangling sharply in the expanse of the hall. She noticed with satisfaction that the guard grimaced at the mistake. 

“The thief Ileana d’Amanova, as you requested, High Chancellor.” 

High Chancellor Plath appraised the guard with a raised brow. 

“The lady Ileana is no mere thief, Captain Argan , and you will do well to regard her with the honor that she deserves.” He turned his cold eyes to Ileana as he spoke, and she repressed a shudder. “After all, I hear that she is quite the charming lady when she so wishes.” 

Ileana again dropped her eyes, this time to hide her indignation. A desire to tell him just what she thought of his so-called honor roiled within her. All in good time, she told herself. Hear what he has to say first. 

Plath released a tinny laugh, waving his hands at the guard Argan. “You are dismissed. My business with Miss d’Amanova can be dealt with by my own person.” 

Argan began in alarm, “She is much too dangerous for—” 

“Your protests are valid, I am sure, but I assure you that the lady will hear me without violence. What I have to say is too valuable for even a mere thief to disregard.” 

A small amount of interest piqued Ileana’s mind. She shifted her feet impatiently as Argan hesitantly bowed once again and withdrew from the hall. With his overbearing presence gone, the grand space felt suddenly empty. 

But then Plath’s burning stare found her again and she took in a steadying breath, slowly meeting his gaze. His oddly plump lips turned up ever so slightly, his pale eyes flashing with some unknown emotion. Ileana straightened her spine and raised her chin. 

“I see that spark in your eye, Miss d’Amanova,” Plath said. “And I approve. Though I personally do not fully share his faith in your value, the king himself has arranged our meeting here today.” 

Ileana suddenly grew hot, her eyes flitting about her on their own accord. Not for the first time, she ached for the feel of her dagger in her palm. 

That shrill laugh once again filled the hall, and Plath leaned back in his chair as if pleased with himself. “King Bel is not here, simple girl! He simply asked me to request your presence. Or rather, your services.” 

“My services,” she repeated, her voice flat. 

His lips quirking again, the High Chancellor nodded in mock solemnity. His eyes flashed once more, and Ileana realized this time around that it was a poorly disguised disgust that shone through those bright irises. 

“Indeed. I doubted it myself the first time he spoke of it, but that is neither here nor there.” Plath straightened his lily white tunic as he spoke, his narrow frame stiff with either formality or reproach. Ileana could not be certain there was a difference to him. He continued, “You will remember, I am sure, that when we found you in the Ulirian Temple it was purely by a stroke of luck. You chose poorly in your accomplice, I believe, Miss d’Amanova.” 

Yes, Ileana remembered. 

The High Chancellor’s smile grew as he no doubt witnessed the anger cross her features. She smoothly pushed away the memory of the night of her capture, instead choosing to focus on the man before her. His words rang in her ears like a death chant. He requested your services. 

“May I ask what it is His Majesty—“ she had a hard time hiding her derisive tone, though she tried— “has in mind for me to do?” 

Instead of answering, Plath snapped his fingers. From seemingly out of nowhere, a young attendant appeared and bowed before him. Ileana watched impassively, wondering just how many servants were hiding out of sight behind the many curtains. This attendant was only a lad, his fair hair hanging in the soft curls of youth. Ileana did not attempt to hide her frown. 

“Fetch Miss d’Amanova a covering of some kind. She looks like a drowned cat. It makes it far too difficult for me to focus on the matter at hand.” Plath waved the servant away, casting a small smirk in Ileana’s direction. 

He seemed content to simply wait for the attendant to return. Minutes passed in silence, with Ileana standing uncomfortably before him as her freezing feet grew even colder. Her indignation at his blatant show of rank boiled deep down inside her, and she allowed herself to envision him writhing underneath her in agony. 

A dagger was all it would take. One easy swish of her blade, and his life would be hers. 

Just by looking in his cold eyes, she could tell he was not the kind to show mercy. She had heard the screams of all of those men in the dungeons, smelled their fear in the air like a sickly perfume. On the outside, she had heard the rumors of the High Chancellor’s deeds. Maimed women, marked as adulteresses. Men beaten to nothing more than a pulp for attempting to sidestep their taxes. She could see their cries in the dewy color of his eyes — she could feel the burning of their injustice in the odd glint of his stare. 

Plath seemed to sense the direction of her thoughts. He smiled fully, the action going no farther than his lips. If anything, the look in his eyes grew darker as his teeth flashed in the golden light. 

The air was cleared somewhat when the young servant returned with a thick, black cloak. He offered it to Ileana silently, his smooth face as clear as a blank canvas. She accepted the cloak with a small thanks, but he turned and melted back into the shadows without a word. She drew the warm garment over her shoulders, grudgingly grateful for at least a full covering to hold in her body heat. If only the High Chancellor had deemed her bare feet too unsightly as well. 

“Ah, much better.” Plath sighed, leaning back in his plush chair once more. “Now, about the king’s request.” 

Ileana steeled herself. 

“Have you heard of the sect of monk warriors that live secluded in the Northern Mists?”  

That was not what she had expected he would lead with. 

“You mean the Ellurian Order?” 

“Yes. They have something the king wants. And based on your, eh, career — King Bel considers you one of the best options to send to retrieve what he needs.” He finished with a slightly sour look, obviously not in full agreement with this sentiment. 

Ileana widened her stance and crossed her arms over her chest. It was more a way for her to feel more secure than anything, but she noticed the way Plath’s eyes slid over her in dissatisfaction. 

“You say the king needs me,” she said slowly, purposefully, “and yet here I am. In chains.” 

She gestured widely, her manacles slashing through the quiet of the hall once again. Plath’s eyes narrowed and he edged forward on his cushioned seat, his knobby knees jutting out impatiently before him. 

His tone was cutting as he said, “Indeed, you are here—” he copied her gesture, taking in the whole hall with a sweep of his arms— “because the king has a proposal for you. A contract, of sorts, if you are willing.” 

Ileana forced herself to remain still, to rein in her breathing as her heart accelerated at his words. A contract. She was very familiar with those. But the fact that King Bel was the one behind this idea did not sit well with her. Of course it didn’t. The rumors circulating around Plath were nothing compared to the blatant actions of Bel himself. She swallowed her unease and found her voice. 

“Elaborate.” 

Plath gave her a condescending look, saying, “Firstly, this contract’s validity would rest solely on your cooperation. You do one thing out of line, as in try to escape, and the agreement is immediately null and void. Upon completion of the terms stated in the contract, you receive your freedom. It’s as simple as that.” 

His eyes slid over her, unbearably slow, landing with unconcealed contempt on her right hand. Ileana clenched and unclenched her jaw. It took nearly all of her effort to restrain herself from hiding her hand from view. From covering the festering, scabbed burn mark from his contemptuous gaze. 

“I think it goes without saying what would happen if you attempted to escape,” he told her with a small, cutting smile. “Unless you cut off that hand, you wouldn’t be able to go unnoticed for long.” 

The weight of his gaze brought back the memory of the red-hot brand, the searing agony of the unmistakable mark being burned deep into her flesh. The mark of a thief. A captured member of the Guild. 

Ignoring Plath’s smug smile, Ileana tapped her foot impatiently on the stone floor. 

“You keep failing to mention one thing, gracious High Chancellor. What exactly is it that the king needs from the Ellurian Order? And why am I the one for the job?” 

She refused to allow herself even the smallest glimmer of relief or hope until she had heard the full extent of what the king was asking of her. 

Her straightforwardness seemed to rub Plath the wrong way, which Ileana had anticipated. His cheeks turned slightly pink and he pursed his paunchy lips, his yellow eyebrows inching dangerously low. 

“What he needs is information,” he spat. “But you are in no place to question anything. Whether he was asking you to steal a whole damned palace or a measly book, you would do it without question! Need I remind you that you are wearing rusting manacles against your delicate skin? And who is it that holds the key to unlocking them?” 

Ileana’s already thin patience broke. 

“The king?” she answered, her lips curling into a tight smile. 

“Me! You bloody girl, I am the one that holds your key!” Plath erupted. A vein popped magnificently in his left temple. 

Shrugging the cloak from her shoulders, Ileana stepped closer and forcefully brandished her manacled wrists beneath his chin. He leaned back slightly, his lip curling at the sight of her chafed and blistered skin. 

“If that’s the case, High Chancellor, then unlock these cuffs and let’s take a look at that contract.” 

U 

She was escorted to a smaller, just as ornate, room. A beautifully polished oaken desk sat in the middle of the space, gleaming under the warm glow of the lit sconces along the walls. Grandiose oil paintings adorned every wall. The one lone window in the room was centered directly behind the grand desk, where Ileana could just barely make out the darkened courtyard beyond. 

“Be seated,” Plath said impatiently. He swept past her with an air of purpose, his long tunic fanning behind him. He had removed his seneschal's plumed hat and replaced it with a short, red headdress that only succeeded in accentuating the sallow shade of his skin. 

Ileana gingerly sat on a hard wooden chair before the desk, making sure to keep her eyes low as she mentally mapped out where she now thought they were in the castle. With each place she was taken, she moved deeper into the maze-like recesses of the king’s domain. The knowledge passed through her mind that an escape attempt at this point would be fruitless.  

The High Chancellor snapped his fingers and another attendant appeared, this time from behind a bureau that stood off to one side. 

“Relieve the lady of her wrist bindings,” Plath said, producing a small key from the folds of his garments. “And make haste.” 

Ileana remained silent as the young attendant dutifully approached her. The manacles soon slid from her wrists and she held back a grimace as her tender skin was fully exposed to the air. She folded her hands in her lap, making sure the cloak covered her red wrists and branded hand, and straightened in her chair. 

Despite the helplessness of her new situation, she would make sure Plath only saw the resolve in her gaze and the confidence in her posture, not the broken bits of her weak skin. 

The boy tucked the manacles away into his sash, then bowed back before Plath and returned the key. The High Chancellor waved the boy away and leaned back in his chair behind the desk, his eyes finding hers over his steepled fingers. 

“Let’s not pretend, Miss d’Amanova. You know that I do not think highly of you nor your profession — but King Bel is a man of enterprise. He values those that gain his respect. And I must only assume that there is something about your exploits that he finds, if anything, intriguing. After all, you were the thief that evaded capture after obtaining the Jorrian diamond several years ago, were you not?” 

Ileana held her chin high. “Yes, that was one of my commissions.” 

Plath gave one of his mirthless smiles. “Commissions. Ah, yes. Because you are a lady of business. I find it quite odd, really, that someone of your standing would stoop so low as to become a common thief, but that really doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” 

It was more a statement than a question, and Ileana did not respond. She had endured many other interrogations, some much worse than this, and so it was easy to disregard his ignorance. She never expected people to truly understand; there was an honor to the Guild, a code and unspoken trust, that one such as Plath could never even begin to fathom. 

Opening a drawer, the High Chancellor pulled out a piece of parchment. It was finely made and lightly perfumed. The sweet scent of jasmine and something else, something slightly bitter, wafted through the air as Plath lay the parchment on the desk between them. Even upside down, Ileana could read the beginning terms of their impending agreement. 

“Now, I mentioned before that King Bel has something that he needs. The secluded Ellurian Order is known for their knowledge and wisdom, as we all know. And the king has recently discovered that they have a certain bit of information that he needs.” 

“I work solely in procuring physical commodities and items,” Ileana smoothly interjected. 

Plath raised his bright eyes to her and shrugged. She saw the ghost of smirk on his lips as he said, “Be that as it may, I don’t think you are quite in the position to choose for this particular commission. This is a delicate matter, as it is a certain piece of information that King Bel needs before we can truly know the whereabouts of the item he desires.” 

This came as a slight surprise to Ileana. What could Bel, a king worth more than any of the hundreds of jewels or priceless items she had ever obtained, need so badly? She leaned in closer to Plath. 

“So you’re saying that the king first wants me to uncover the whereabouts of some nameless item, then go and retrieve it for him?” 

It would have been laughable had her situation been different. As it was, Plath regarded her with a seriousness that left no room for levity. 

“More or less, yes,” he said. 

“What is this item that he so desires?” 

At this, the High Chancellor’s eyes narrowed at her with contempt. 

“In your current situation, it behooves you to take what you are given. Unless you think that the gallows instead fit your need for answers?” When Ileana said nothing, he smirked and continued, “As a hired woman of the king, you will simply be expected to fulfill your assigned duty, which in this case is obtaining the sought after item in whichever way you can. Your name precedes you. We have all heard of the skill you possess, Miss d’Amanova. For a woman to be one of the most talked about mercenary in the kingdom — that is no small feat.” 

His words held no admiration. That flash of heated disgust filled his pale eyes once more as he looked her up and down. His expression at what he saw was enough to tell Ileana exactly what he was thinking. This is the woman behind all of the rumors? Pathetic. But it was his ignorance taking over once more, for anyone with true experience in these matters would know that one never judges a thief simply by their outer shell. 

It was a facade, after all. 

And Ileana was, in a small way, grateful that Plath lacked the depth to see beneath her matted hair and bruised face. He merely saw her as a bedraggled woman who had obviously missed a few meals. And she welcomed his disdain. Relished it. For it made it all the more easy for her to make her decision. There was no need for her to prove herself since he clearly thought she would fail. It did not matter what he thought, not in the least. It did not even matter what the king thought. 

This was her way out. And their mistake was in giving it to her in the first place.