Assassination

  Osten Masel Havrin walked across the decorated hallways of the palace with sure steps. He had grown up in the Robed Palace, in the center of Chrysen, the capital of the great nation Lenovis. He hardly spared a glance to the decorated walls, the lace edged paintings, the polished crystals and silvers, and the beautiful colors on display everywhere. He was lost in thought. Well, not completely.
 
Lack of perception and awareness could kill you in the Robed Palace.
 
  His eyes searched each face and figure that passed him. He had to backtrack several times when he stumbled upon corridors empty of people. Those were dangerous places. The perfect place for an assassination. No, he could not allow himself to sink too deep into his mind.
 
But Osten had a lot to think about. Every person in Lenovis with even a drop of royal blood had a lot to think about.
 
His robe of black brushed his ankles. His sash of a delicate golden satin actually brushed the ground. In Lenovis, length of sashes indicated position and wealth. Common citizens had thigh long sashes. Tourists had inelegant stubs on their middles. The Lilianna, Robe of Court, Hand of the Ririvan, Wall of the Sea, had a sash that gathered at her feet in five loops. The Ririvan, of course, only had a smooth belt at his waist. The ruler of Lenovis had no place in society. He was above it.

That is, he would have been before he died. The Ririvan had been assassinated.

He was heading to the funeral. He blinked and fingered his sash. He was wearing the Ririvan's colors in honor to him, like everyone else in the city. But none of that mattered. The only thing in his mind was the empty throne looming at him. Osten would have a very secure claim on the throne if he called for it. His hand tightened on his sash. He could just imagine the taste of power. And the assassins he would attract like bees to honey.

He paused before one of the large arched windows facing the Fillen Sea. Its blue tresses undulated against the Sea Wall and lapped against the shore. Chrysen, the capital of Lenovis was famed to be a beautiful city. And it was. The light of the evening sun pierced the net of the crisscrossing bridges upwards and fell – fragmented like broken jewels - on the city’s remarkably clean and sparkling streets. The Lenovian love of architecture was displayed splendidly in the delicately carved low-lying domes; the strangely twisted towers that showed off gilded cornices in the sun; the paved squares sporting metal, stone, or marble fountains depicting phases of the moon, a flood, pointy eared fairies, jeweled weapons, and various rulers that seemed to be hiding secrets in the voluminous folds of their robes; and the large, flat buildings that rose in the splendor of elaborate carvings or hand painted decorations.
     
The streets below were filled with people wearing informally short robes and occasional lace-edged robes that brushed the ground. The other interests of Lenovs – mystery, magic, literature, perfume, and lace – were abundantly displayed in the renowned markets of Lenovis. The Lenovs moved around the markets as if in a dance, bargaining and talking, carrying out their duties in society. They all looked like exotic and pristine flowers, swathed in lace and hidden behind fans. Markets were the social ‘meeting point’ for Lenovs. They tended to dress up.

Osten sighed and pushed back his brown hair from his eyes. Blinking, he turned away.

And met with a carved dagger that embedded itself in his throat. The man in front of him had silvery hair and gray eyes. He wore a black robe and sash trimmed with golden lace. A wind touched him gracefully, gently from behind.  He opened his mouth to speak. Blood bubbled and spilled over. His vision blurred. He fell.

As he lay on his back, he could glimpse the sun through the large window, behind the net of bridges. The last thing he saw though, was the man's face as he stooped to finish with him