The Steel Princess: The Sovereign Blades, #1

By Amy Sanderson

Born a princess. Made an assassin. Fated to change the world.

 

Skye was never meant to rule. As the third child of Eskeleth's king, she's instead spent years learning the skills of war and death, to protect her country and the older sister who will one day be queen.

 

Except disaster has befallen the royal family, leaving Skye next in line for the throne. For the sake of her people, she must return to a homeland plagued by ghosts – and bordered by a rapacious Empire – to fight for her crown against a Council that will do anything to keep her from it.

 

And if Skye is to rule, she must overcome an ancient prophecy, one that promises Eskeleth's end in blood and fire. To save her kingdom, she will need to be both princess and assassin, or everything she's ever known will be destroyed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Sanderson
• Release date: Aug 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386650355

Amy Sanderson

Amy has been writing for as long as she can remember, inspired by a childhood fascination with books. By the time she was fifteen and confronted with school 'careers guidance', she'd decided being an author was the only profession she could possibly enjoy - which, of course, led to a string of other roles, including Archaeology student, bookseller and library assistant. These days, she lives in the North Yorkshire countryside with her partner, where they run a bed & breakfast business and smallholding. When she's not working or writing, Amy enjoys reading, gaming, photography, and trying to pretend she's a grown-up.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The Final Test

There were few things Skye Eskel appreciated more than a well-balanced dagger. Its weight in her palm, the leather grip against her skin, the blade whetted and oiled and honed to razor perfection – all of it gave her a thrill like little else. This one had been a gift, and tonight… Tonight she’d get to use it.

She straightened from her crouch on the rooftops, surveying the vista. The jumbled domes and spires of Imaldra turned the skyline into a fractured, uneven thing, and made the star-studded sky behind even more pristine. Skye had little time for stargazing, though. She didn’t need to pinpoint her location by the Sister Stars, because she knew every inch of this city, and tonight she needed to move quickly.

There’ll be others, help and hindrance both. Teacher’s words came back to her as Skye started up the sloping roof at a jog. There’d be other students, yes, out training or running errands, but she also knew there’d be people looking for her. This was her final training mission, after all, and Skye was under no illusions. Plenty of those out here tonight would have been put there to see her fail.

She dropped off the edge of the roof onto a balcony, then danced along the railing to where it abutted a water tower. It was nothing personal that would lead fellow assassins to stand in her way tonight. No, this was for her own benefit, to make sure she was absolutely ready, as honed as her blade. No-one became a blooded member of the Conclave, of age or not, without deserving every bit of it.

There was someone at the top of the tower. Skye knew as soon as she started to climb, fingers easily finding handholds in the rough sandstone. It was a fairly obvious location both to keep a lookout and to assume she’d pass by, but sometimes obvious could be useful. Not everyone looking for her would make an effort to be discreet.

She reached the top of the wall and peered through the stone balustrade, but there was nothing to be seen except a conical roof in Imaldra’s characteristic red tiles. Skye boosted herself up, swinging over the parapet with practised ease, just as the dagger came in from her left, slicing for her throat – or at least it tried to.

The blade hadn’t been blackened, and she saw the moonlight glancing off it as it swept in. Skye ducked, grabbing the attacking knife arm with both hands, even as she swept a foot out behind her. Her attacker broke the hold on his arm easily enough, wrenching free of Skye’s grip, and tried to dance over her outstretched foot. He would have managed it, too, if she hadn’t already dropped both hands to the floor to steady herself, and scythed the other leg after the first.

Her attacker went down with a grunt, and although he bounced back up nearly as quickly, his dagger clattered to the floor and went spinning away into the dark.

Dammit.

Skye had recognised her opponent from the moment of his attack, and sure enough he wasn’t the discreet type, but his voice confirmed it. She scooted into a crouch, waiting to see if he’d go hunting for the lost dagger. Hello, Marcelo.

Marcelo straightened, yanking down his veil, his grin a flash of white in the darkness. Good evening, Your Highness.

Skye grimaced. The title wasn’t just a joke. It had been impossible to hide her origins upon arriving at the Conclave. It wasn’t common for royals to train as assassins, but it wasn’t unheard of either, and the masters had never gone to great pains to disguise it. Skye’s own efforts hadn’t been particularly successful; everyone from the lowliest pot boy to the Grandmaster had known who she was by the end of her first week.

Most of them had long since stopped teasing her about it, but not Marcelo. Even after six years, he still thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

Skye got to her feet. Too slow, as usual. That was one of Philippe’s viper blades, wasn’t it? He’ll kill you if you lose it.

Marcelo swore loudly and went scrabbling off into the shadows. He returned triumphant, holding the knife aloft. They both stared at it, moonlight running like water along the scale-patterned steel, before Marcelo gave it a quick polishing swipe across his sleeve and returned it to its sheath.

Any idea how many more are out there? Skye asked. Marcelo’s attack might have been rather half-arsed, but others wouldn’t be.

Marcelo shrugged, following her to the parapet on the tower’s far side. Her destination, a tower of a different stripe, was just visible against the night, not a scrap of light emanating from it. A dozen or so. They’re all along the route they think you’ll take. You could just go round. A pause, as he studied her face. But you won’t. Straight down the middle, as always.

Skye returned the shrug. Life in the Conclave was no less filled with secrets and intrigues than the royal court she’d grown up in, but when it came to her work, she preferred the direct approach. She’d avoid what obstacles she could, but the rest… They’ll never know what hit them.

She glanced at Marcelo, expecting a shared grin, but he was frowning off into the distance. Look, Skye…

He didn’t finish, which wasn’t like Marcelo in the slightest. Skye nudged him. What is it?

Marcelo shook his head. Forget it.

She could use coercion, Skye knew, or even persuasion; she could almost beat Marcelo in a fair fight, and she never fought fair. Instead, she waited, trusting the truth to bubble to the surface of its own accord. And it did.

Something was happening at the Conclave when I left. A runner came in with a message, and… Another shake of his head. I don’t know what was going on, but I swear I heard your name.

A trickle of cold sweat started between Skye’s shoulder-blades, and made its way down her spine. Her name could have been mentioned in connection with nothing more than this test, or a piece of idle gossip, but…

But she couldn’t escape the feeling of dread his words woke in her, and the sudden hammering of her heart that even the fight and the climb up the tower hadn’t triggered.

She put both hands on the parapet, preparing to vault over. She’d already wasted too much time.

Straight down the middle? Marcelo asked.

Skye had to swallow before her dry lips would form words. Straight down the middle.

Good luck.

Skye didn’t have time to answer. She’d already jumped.

***

Three more assassins awaited Skye along her route. Two were trainees, younger than she was, and easy enough to disable. The third, Kaela, popped out of the shadows beside a walled garden, where the air was heavy with summer jasmine and ripe apricots. She was twice Skye’s age, ten times more experienced, and worked primarily for the Grandmaster himself. There wasn’t any way in all the blue heavens that Skye could beat her, and they both knew it.

They circled one another for a few heartbeats, Skye with a dagger drawn, Kaela not yet armed, though that wasn’t likely to last. There were ways for a knife-fighter to risk injury themselves to get close enough to kill an opponent, but Skye barely even considered them. Assassins were killers, yes, but they were also acrobats, and poisoners, and thieves, masters-of-disguise and unseen shades in the night. Hand-to-hand combat didn’t need to be your speciality when you knew how to avoid a fight.

Skye ran. She heard pursuing footsteps, for a time, but then she ducked into a courtyard garden, all ancient apple trees wreathed in trailing moss. She vaulted into the nearest tree, clambering swiftly into the thin, creaking branches near the top, then onto the roof of a house. Kaela, too tall and too heavy to ever creep through those trees without snapping branches, couldn’t follow. When Skye looked back, the older woman was still on the ground, and gave Skye a sharp salute of approval before taking off into the night.

Alone again, Skye paused to regain her breath and study the skyline. Her target rose square and stocky from the jumbled rooftops, an old watchtower from when Imaldra was smaller and the Empire more in need of watching its back.

She set off at a jog, apprehension rising in her chest. You never knew who was going to be at the end of a mission, especially during training. Usually, it was someone from the Conclave, bored witless from waiting. Occasionally, it was someone hired to play the role of target; on one memorable occasion, Skye had tracked down a minstrel who, by the time she got there, was in bed with three women. And tonight…

There were rumours. There were rumours about everything in the closed confines of the Conclave, but the ones about the final training mission were particularly intriguing. It would be a family member, many said, or the Grandmaster himself. Others suggested a stranger, but that for the first time, you were required to put your training into practice. To kill.

She reached the edge of a sharply sloping roof and stopped to survey the watchtower. Its exterior was rife with handholds, but the tower was set apart, meaning to reach its walls she’d have to go down first. Which brought a new possibility.

From this distance, at least, it looked as though the tower door was open.

Skye scrambled to the ground and approached the entrance cautiously. She was, by nature, what the Conclave called an acrobat, well-suited to climbing a tower like this one and making her entrance through some narrow window or other. Maybe that was what she should do, despite the door… But it was just so enticing. Skye had cultivated her thieving well over the years, and there was something difficult to ignore about an unlocked door.

She crept inside, barely brushing against the half-open door. The place was empty and gutted by fire, but there was a stone staircase rising along one wall. Skye took it, climbing past storey after storey of fragile floors that looked ready to collapse. The air smelt of black earth and damp stone, and there was a soft rustling from some of the window embrasures that suggested pigeons. Skye trod carefully past those. Stupid birds they might be, but they could give away her presence like nothing else.

The final ceiling looked sound, maybe even newly constructed. The staircase rose to a trapdoor, closed but not – when Skye pushed gently against it – locked.

She braced herself for the squeal of hinges, but the trapdoor rose without a sound. Skye followed it, head, then shoulders, then the rest of her. Moonlight trickled in through a single slit window, all the others boarded. There was a table in the centre with two chairs, a chest against the far wall, and a narrow bed beneath the window. A narrow, occupied bed.

Skye closed the trapdoor silently behind her, or at least she thought she did. Her heart was thumping so hard that she could hear nothing else, and she had to wipe her sweating palms three times against her trousers before she could properly grip her dagger. It didn’t matter who was in that bed. It didn’t matter whether they were a stranger or not. To complete this final test, to finally join the Conclave proper, she knew what she had to do.

Only when she was directly above the sleeper, her dagger held ready, did Skye look down. The figure in the bed was facing the wall, but she recognised that face better than her own. Teacher: the man who’d been there since her very first day in the Conclave, who’d trained her in everything from how to brew elixirs, to how to hold a sword. Six years. Six years, she’d followed him like a shadow – and when she was up to something she shouldn’t be, the other way around.

It would be too easy to hesitate. Falter now, and everything she’d worked for would be lost. She’d be cast out of the Conclave, sent back home in disgrace, never able to become what she so firmly believed was her destiny. No, this was it. This was how one life ended – and another began.

Without another thought, Skye brought the dagger down.

***

Teacher knocked her arm aside before the blade so much as nicked him. She should have known he wouldn’t be sleeping. Skye reared back, instinct saving her from being caught, but the dagger was lost harmlessly in the bedclothes. No matter. She had another.

Skye. Teacher’s voice was gravelly with age and pipe smoke. It almost brought her up short out of sheer habit, but instead she sprang away, reaching for another weapon. This would be harder with her target awake, but she’d still see it done.

She attacked without warning, as Teacher was climbing off the bed. He deflected her strike easily, knocking the blade aside; his other hand, coming out of nowhere, slammed into her chest. Skye staggered backwards, but she was still armed, ready to attack again–

"Skye. This time, Teacher’s voice had the ring of command, and Skye halted, out of reach of any disarming moves. Gods, girl, stop for a minute."

Skye backed away, suddenly aware that her hands were shaking. This is what I have to do.

No, that’s what the test is intended to make you believe. Teacher stood. He was dressed in his usual black robes, though his veil hung loose beside his scarred face. We need to see what you’ll do.

What did you expect? Skye allowed her posture to relax, just a little. Perhaps a conversation would put Teacher off guard long enough for her to attack. That I’d just walk away?

Some do. Teacher shrugged. He knew what she was planning, of course, and moved to put the sturdy table between them. Most, actually. It’s usually a family member waiting. We’ve only had three deaths in the last decade.

"Don’t you want them to kill? Isn’t that the point?"

Only if that’s what the student feels necessary. Mostly, a Conclave watcher intervenes first, but it’s a good lesson. You never know what you’re going to face, and you never know where a contract is going to take you. Some assassins have boundaries – women, children – and we have to know what they are.

Suddenly too curious to hold her focus, Skye let her blade drop a little. And me? What do you think my boundaries are?

Teacher gave a soft chuckle. Judging by your performance tonight, you don’t have any, unless I mean less to you than I thought. I always knew you were a ruthless one, though; royals often are. It would have been interesting to see what you’d have done if there had been family waiting.

Skye stiffened. Her family, especially her two older siblings, were maddening, infuriating, but also the people she loved most in all the world. Even Teacher couldn’t compete with that. I suppose they were too busy to come, she said, and wasn’t quite able to keep the relief from her voice.

Teacher didn’t reply. In fact, he’d gone very still, as if waiting for something – or preparing. In the end, all he said was, Sit down, Skye.

She sat. It was clear this night wasn’t going to end as she’d assumed, but Teacher seemed satisfied. Had she done enough, she wondered, to finally pass the Conclave’s training?

Teacher went first to the chest by the wall, removing a bottle and two glasses, one of which he pushed towards Skye as he sat down. You know there are three more years of apprenticeship before you’re properly an assassin.

Skye nodded, feeling her heart speed to a gallop. They’d only be discussing the apprenticeship if…

Teacher opened the bottle with a gentle popping sound, and poured a dark liquid into both glasses. He waited until she’d reached for hers before continuing, I’m sorry you won’t be able to stay for them.

Skye almost choked on her drink. It was Eskelene wine, or the potent, syrupy concoction that passed for it in her northern homeland. She’d been too young to drink much of the stuff before she left home, and her palate had changed to accommodate the rich earthiness of Imperial vintages, but it set off a pang of nostalgia, even homesickness, all the same.

Which, if she understood Teacher correctly, she’d soon be able to assuage. You’re sending me home. I’ve failed.

As a matter of fact, you haven’t. You’ve excelled in your physical training, and the arts of stealth and disguise. Your poison-making is a little haphazard, and your sword-work positively sloppy, but there’s enough skill in you to make a fine assassin.

Frustration, even anger, bubbled in Skye’s chest. Why, then? Why aren’t you taking me on?

Teacher’s dark gaze was direct, and even scarier than usual. Because you’re needed at home.

Needed? She’d always known she’d go back someday. As the king’s third child, it was her duty to learn the ways of war – or outright death, in her case, as she’d proved so useless at history and strategy – like so many third children before her. After this sojourn, she’d go back to the Eskelene court and spend her life commanding the army, and protecting the lives of her older siblings. She’d always expected to leave a full-fledged assassin, though. Are we… are we going to war?

There was no ‘we’ about it. The Conclave tried to stay neutral in such matters, but they were based in the Empire, and if it came to it, Skye knew she and Teacher could well be on opposing sides. The fragile peace that allowed her to train in Imaldra couldn’t last forever.

Even that stark thought was blown away when Teacher did something he’d never done before – reached across the table, and placed his hand over one of hers. You’re not needed to lead troops, Skye. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but no-one can make this any easier. Your family are dead, and you… You’re going to be queen.

CHAPTER TWO

The Quiet Dead

Queen. Two weeks at sea, and Skye never once let the word slip from her mind. Her thoughts wanted to rebel every time, but she made herself fix on it, until there could be no doubt. Still, she felt sick with it, and not just that. She was a miserable sailor, spending most of the voyage thrashing in her bunk, occasionally spewing up the meagre contents of her stomach. By the time they rounded the Cape of Bone, as it was locally known, she felt hollowed out and wan, reduced to a stretched frame of grief and nervous exhaustion.

It was a relief when the seas finally calmed. The waters around the cape were rough even at this time of year, but on the other side, in Eskelene waters, they smoothed. Skye crept up on deck when she heard the watch bell sound, and found herself confronted with a familiar sight.

Home. Even round the span of the Cape, the landscape changed dramatically, from the sere, dusty hillsides of the western Empire to the rucked emerald peaks and valleys of Eskeleth. Even now, there were drifts of fog along the coastline, the forested hills rising like the humped backs of great beasts above the murk. Even over the tang of saltwater, the air smelt of pine.

Skye sucked a deep breath, then fell to coughing and gasping, her stomach rebelling even now. The sailors casually ignored her, circling around her blanket-swaddled form as though she were the centre of a whirlpool. It would be another half day to port, Skye knew; if she was going to make herself at all presentable, now was the time.

It was early evening by the time they coasted into the harbour at Tulmeroc. Skye had managed to brush her greasy hair and rub some of the worst scuffs off her boots, but there was nothing she could do about the fact she didn’t have a stitch of finery to her name. Arriving to claim her crown in assassin’s blacks had felt too much like an omen, so she’d opted for old travelling clothes, stained leathers and a faded, bottle green cloak. She looked like a caravan guard, maybe a mercenary, but it was the best she could do.

The roll of the ship as they moored set Skye’s stomach complaining once again, and she was glad there was no ceremony as the gangplank was lowered. Instead, she staggered down to the quay alone and unannounced. She might have joked about what an ignominious entrance this was, if she wasn’t wracked with dry heaves, and if she’d had any jokes left in her.

Figures emerged from the dockside, setting the low mist churning. Two were guards holding torches against the rapidly darkening evening, and the third glittered beneath their light. Skye squinted at him, trying to put a name to the face.

Your Highness. The voice came out of the fog, low and controlled; Skye caught a glimpse of fine robes, dark skin and a dark pointed beard – and a chain of office, flashing against his chest when he moved. You have my sincere condolences. Your father was a good man and a great king, and your sister and brother were taken from us too soon. Now, you must be tired after your journey. Please, this way – we have a carriage waiting.

Skye didn’t move. Her instincts prickled in warning, even strung-out and exhausted as they were. Do I know you?

Ah, forgive me, Your Highness. The man bowed, courtly, but only just low enough to be deferential. My name is Minister Varren, Your Highness. I had the honour of serving on your father’s Council, before his sad demise.

Skye stiffened. There had been few details of her family’s deaths before she left Imaldra, and she’d spent the whole voyage concocting new and more elaborate ways they might have died. It wasn’t just speculation that set her teeth on edge, though – she didn’t know this Varren, who was too young to have been a minister before she left Eskeleth six years ago, but she instantly disliked him now.

But that was petty, and childish. This was just a man doing his job, and a really sodding unpleasant job, given the circumstances. There was no need to form baseless opinions of people in the dark, and certainly not to be a brat. Thank you, minister. The carriage, please.

They swept along the quay in procession, Varren and the two guards straight-backed and sure of themselves, Skye feeling hunched and insecure. This was her home, she kept telling herself, but the things that made it so – the people who made it so – were gone. Two weeks had been long enough to convince herself this wasn’t all some joke by one of her siblings, who were far too staid and sensible to pull such a thing; that it wasn’t even a terrible mistake. If she was being summoned back to Eskeleth like this, her family really was dead.

The carriage waited next to a shipmaster’s office, lanterns burning at its four corners. Varren himself held the door for her and Skye stepped inside, into a box that smelt of dry wood and musty velvets. Her family all rode and their carriages didn’t get much use; it wasn’t difficult to see why.

Varren climbed in after her, gracefully settling himself into the far corner. Skye found herself studying the man as they rattled into motion, unable to abandon her assassin’s watchful eye. He was even younger than she’d thought on the quayside, barely into his twenties, with a narrow, handsome face. He was also Dushkadi, one of the southern travellers who’d fled a war with the Empire to settle on Eskeleth’s northern coast centuries ago, claiming lands no-one else had thought habitable and making a striking success of it. The Dushkadi were Eskelene through and through, these days, with dukedoms and seats on the Council. Varren himself must come from noble stock; gems glittered on his fingers when he moved, and in his ears.

Are those Imaldran diamonds? Skye asked, pointing to her own ear for emphasis.

Varren, far from being ashamed of his gaudiness, positively beamed at her. Thank you for noticing, Your Highness. They are. A gift from my sister. She’s married to an Imaldran merchant.

Skye just nodded. There was a time in Eskelene history when anything remotely connected to the Empire was shunned, when they’d spent the summers defending the mountain passes from Imperial incursions, and the winters sharpening their swords for the next campaign. That