Free Assassin's Rise by CJ Whrite Page B

nowhere near you,” he grunted.
    “But it felt like it.
So how will you escape The Tomb?” he asked innocently.
    “I will see when I get
there, but there will be a way,” said Roland, closing his eyes. He
wished for Altmoor to hurry up.
    “And what will you do
after?”
    “You ask too many
questions,” said Roland, watching Jeklor from underneath
half-closed eyelids.
    “Just making
conversation, my good man,” he said and shrugged. “You have near
spoke no word since you got here. I was interested in hearing what
you have to say.”
    *
    Altmoor rushed from the
guardhouse. He blinked his eyes a few times once he stepped into
the brilliant sunlight.
    “Innocently locked away
in the dark to protect appearances,” he said, and cursed loudly. A
passer-by looked up as he swore, but looked down again quickly once
he recognised Altmoor’s robes. Altmoor shook his head. He, also,
was part of the problem. Too used to command respect, to have those
of common blood obeying him; it was an open sore on the city.
    As a young man in the
war, he had had no such illusions, fighting side by side with his
blood brothers, men with no claim to noble blood. He had sat around
the fire with them, sharing meals and swapping tales. But, as an
old man, the only friend he had left was Oldon. Without him
noticing, as the years had passed, he had moved along with the
assuming vision of noble-blood grandeur. No, he did notice – he had
ignored it.
    He ran into the street,
his robes lifted high as he took wide strides, his bony, white legs
near reflecting the sun light. He stepped in front of a donkey
cart, holding his hands out in front of him. The driver pulled back
on the reins, cursing.
    “Whoreson, what in the
–” he started, and then bit his tongue as he noted the robes. “What
is the problem, Lord?” he said, red-faced.
    Altmoor walked around
the cart and jumped onto the back. His foot tangled in the hem of
his robes and he landed face first. He heard people laughing but he
did not care. He decided that today marked the day where he would
discard the overblown nobles pride and dignity. He waved at the
laughing crowd. They tried to hide their faces from being
recognised.
    Digging in a pouch
hanging by his side, he handed the surprised driver a handful of
silver. “Take me to Academia Amlor,” he said.
    The man’s eyes widened
as he counted the small fortune. He whipped the reins, urging the
donkey into action, eager to move before the crazy old noble
changed his mind.
    *
    The cell door opened
and Altmoor stepped inside, the guard closing the door behind him.
He held a burning candle in front of him, his one hand curled
around the back of the flame, blocking most of the glare. Roland
and Jeklor squinted their eyes. Altmoor placed the candle on the
floor, keeping his hand in place.
    “Thank you, but we will
be fine,” said Roland. Altmoor nodded and lifted his hand.
    The two prisoners sat
and stared at the candle, their eyes getting used to the light,
while Altmoor arranged the writing instruments on the floor. He
laid four sheaves of slightly, yellowish parchment on a clean
cloth, a bottle of ink and a quill placed next to it. A stub of red
wax went next to the candle.
    “Will you be able to
write or should I?” he asked.
    “I’ll be fine,’ said
Roland and moved to the cloth. ‘Thank you, you have been a great
help.”
    “It’s the least I can
do,” said Altmoor, ashamed, seething inside thinking of what his
noble peers were doing.
    Roland sat cross-legged
in front of the cloth, took the quill and dipped it into the ink.
He only paused for a moment before he started writing, the quill
rasping across the parchment. He finished two letters and blew on
the ink to keep it from smudging. He rolled the parchments up and
wrote down the destinations. He proceeded to hold the stub of wax
to the candles flame before sealing each letter with a portion of
melted wax. He waited for the wax to harden before handing the two
letters