The Boy with Frozen Wings

"You have my attention," says the Grand Assassin. "Who?"

"He…" The boy drops his gaze to the Varos gold coin on the tavern's backroom table, his guarantee of safe audience, then looks back up at the man.

The Grand Assassin's wrinkles and white hair may or may not be real, but the eyes are. Pinprick pupils caught in stillwater stare back at the boy.

"I can't say it."

"Have you heard the story of the little bird with the frozen wings?" the Grand Assassin asks.

"Are there two birds and a stone in it?"

"No, lad, it's the one about the bird flying south for the winter. The air's so cold that his wings turn to ice and he falls into a meadow. Do you know what happens to this bird?"

The boy shakes his head, platinum hair peeking out despite his hood's concealing efforts.

"A cow comes by and drops some dung on the frozen bird. And in this steaming pile of crap, the bird's wings begin to thaw. He's ready to fly again, but now he's stuck. So, he chirps for help."

The boy watches the Grand Assassin's bare hand hover over the Varos coin as the man whistles a plaintive tune that ends in a soft squawk.

"Finally, a passing cat hears the bird's cry and comes over to investigate. It digs the bird free, cleans him in the grass, and eats him."

"What does it mean?" asks the boy, willing the Grand Assassin to touch the gold coin.

"First, not everyone who shits on you is your enemy. Second, if you're in deep shit, it's best to keep your mouth shut. But most importantly, it means that not everyone who gets you out of shit is your friend… so do you want my help?"

"Yes." The boy throws off his hood and says the name of the Crown Prince.

The Grand Assassin's hand drops under the weight of that name. His fingers touch the Varos coin on the table, and some reptilian part of his mind notes that the coin is slick, oily even, but his higher consciousness is focused on the face before him.

He is staring at the Crown Prince's exact likeness.

"Yes, I'm his decoy…" the boy pauses, hoping the man will fill in the rest.

"But?"

"But I don't have to be."

The Grand Assassin sucks in his breath once he realizes the lookalike's audacity. Steal the life of the Crown Prince then slip in to take his place. Can he do it?

"How will you explain his missing decoy then?"

"Fire," the boy says matter-of-factly.

The man opens his mouth then closes it again. He's used to watching men squirm in the wake of what's left unsaid, but this boy makes him feel like the talkative one. He watches the boy for any sign of uncertainty, but all he gets in return is a polite blank stare.

Finally, he slides the coin of Varos into his leather purse. As an afterthought, he wipes his oily fingers on his jerkin.

Then, the boy tells him when and where.

Their audience concluded, the boy pulls up his hood and leaves the tavern's backroom. He weaves through day drunks then through the city Azemal's maze of alleyways.

He stops at a bustling market place and takes in his surroundings. He doesn't think the Grand Assassin has changed his mind and decided to follow now that their safe audience is over. No, the man thinks himself a cat poised above the future king.

Still, a diversion wouldn't hurt. He listens to the different voices then joins the crowd.

"There's a pretty lass," he says in a baritone voice and pinches a fishwife's arse on his way past. The fishwife accosts a nearby man who's speaking in that same baritone voice to his friends.

The man stumbles against a cloth merchant's stall. "Thief. Stop thief!" the boy cries in the bewildered shopkeeper's own voice.

Then, he nabs a new cloak to throw over his own as he melts away into the pandemonium. Along the way, he tears off the tainted gloves that he used to touch the Varos coin.

***

Back in the castle confines, the boy is in another backroom of sorts, a half-remembered guard tower. There's nothing to guard here because this edge of the castle wall ends on a cliff, a chasm forged centuries ago when the gods threw Varos down from on high.

The inside is lined with scrolls and manuscripts bound between boards. This is the record keeper's domain. The record keeper lost his tongue for some long-ago unspoken crime. From the way the man walks, the boy knows that was not all that has been cut from him.

The Crown Prince never comes here because he is a cow whose bovine brow cannot bear the burden of reading, but the boy loves the record keeper.

He is his greatest friend, his greatest teacher, the one who showed him the scrolls on poisons long forgotten.

At first, the boy thought poison alone would be his answer, but the best one, Auria's kiss, takes time to act. There would be no guarantee he'd be positioned to take the Crown Prince's place unnoticed once the kiss called him home.

Silent but ever listening, the record keeper had shown the boy a manuscript on Varos and his assassin cult.

Yes, the coin, the Grand Assassin, it's all coming together, but there's still time to talk yet.

The boy and the record keeper have their own way of speaking. The boy blasts through his repertoire of voices while pausing to the listen to the tongueless man's eyes.

They sit now facing each other with an imaginary coin in between them.

"Have you heard the story of the little bird with the frozen wings?" the boy asks in a perfect imitation of the Grand Assassin.

The record keeper's eyes brim over with pride, with adoration for the protégé who gives him voice.

Late in the night, he will bar the servant's quarters and start a fire. There will always be more servants, and no one will count bones to make sure the Crown Prince's decoy is among the last lot.

For now, he watches as the boy climbs the crumbling guard tower then jumps to the nearby hemlock tree. The boy balances on the end of a branch, then he's over the castle wall. The record keeper says a silent prayer that the boy will return riding the Crown Prince's horse.

***

Deep within the hardwood forest, the boy waits at the appointed spot.

He cannot see the Grand Assassin, but he can hear horses in the distance.

The Crown Prince is foxhunting with his retinue, an outing among sycophants.

The boy shouts out a fox's warning call, a vixen's scream to draw the dogs.

He throws his voice and steps behind a tree as the foxhounds bumble past him.

The Crown Prince, whose horse is by far the fastest and whose friends dare not outpace him, is close behind with no other riders in sight.

Something detaches itself from the undergrowth and the Crown Prince falls from his saddle. He has time to low once in pain before the thing is on him. The now-never king jerks once then falls silent.

The Grand Assassin is caked in mud. Only his stillwater eyes are recognizable. They watch as the boy pulls off the Crown Prince's pinkie ring.

A knife touches the boy's throat.

The Grand Assassin is saying something, but his words are cut short by the sound of approaching hooves.

The knife vanishes. So does the Crown Prince's body as the Grand Assassin pulls his prey into the undergrowth.

With feline grace, the boy hops onto the Crown Prince's horse and turns to meet his retinue.

Later that night, as fire burns away the memory of the decoy, the Grand Assassin will stare at the night sky. The stars will shimmer and merge into one bright light as the numbness in his fingertips creeps up his arm and seeps into his heart. That will be Auria's kiss, courtesy of Varos's coin, calling him home.

The Grand Assassin won't curse the new Crown Prince, the future king who would've owed him everything. No, he'll be too busy staring at the sky and trying to take flight.

As for his words cut short in the woods, the new Crown Prince remembers them perfectly:

"Remember this moment, and you will—"

And what will the boy of many voices with only the tongueless to know his secret do?

Well, some things are better left unsaid.