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Fiction - Fool's Assassin - First Person & Dialogue - Neutral British

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Voice Over • Audiobooks
7

Description

A first-person narration section from the excellent book I'm currently reading, part one of the Farseer Trilogy, which includes some dialogue between an older man and his young daughter.

Vocal Characteristics

Language

English (British)

Voice Age

Middle Aged (35-54)

Accents

British, England - Received Pronunciation (RP, BBC)

Transcript

Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
they had used the two blood points in her throat. When I first placed my hands, she had known what I was doing. Her blind and bloody gays had met mine, and for a moment I read relief and permission on her face. But then, as I applied the pressure, she had reflexively reached up to seize my wrists. She had struggled, fighting for a few mere moments of more pain riddled life. She was too weakened to put up much of a fight. She managed to scratch me a bit. It had been a long, long time since I had killed anyone I had never anticipated killing with arousal, as some assassins do. I had never made it my joy in life, my fulfilment or even my cherished goal. I accepted it as my task in life when I was very young, and I've done it efficiently and coldly and tried not to think too much about it that night. Even with the messengers, initial permission, even with the knowledge that I was saving her from a lingering and painful death, was probably my worst experience as an assassin. And here I was, making my small daughter a party to it and binding her to silence. Had I sought righteously to keep chained and kept stricken from dragging her into being a Farsi er with all the attendant history, they certainly would not have exposed her to anything like this. I had been so proud of how long it had been since I've killed anyone. Good work fits. Don't let them put the burdens of being a farce. Ear on those thin shoulders make her an assassin's apprentice. Instead. On an estate like with the woods, there is always somewhere a pile of brush and branches waiting to be burnt, all end up, heaped. Somewhere out of the way. Ours was at the far side of the lambing pens in a pasture, I carried a bundled messenger and led the way through the tall, snowy grass in the winter night, Be walked silently behind me. It was an unpleasant walk in the dark and wet. She followed me in the trail. I broke. We came to a snowy edged amount of brambles and twiggy branches, thorn bushes cut and thrown here, and fallen branches from the trees bordering the pasture that were too skinny to be worth cutting into firewood. It was an ample pile for my task. There I sat down my load and the bundled body tipped unevenly onto the pile. I pulled the branches over her and made the pile more compact. Be watched. I thought perhaps I should send her back, tell her to go to my room and sleep. I knew she wouldn't and suspected that actually witnessing what I had to do would be less horrific than imagining it. Together. We went to fetch oil and colts. She watched me fling the oil over the branches and pour it generously over the wrapped body. Then we set it to light. The evergreen branches and brambles were resinous. They caught fire quickly and their flames dried the thicker branches. I feared they would consume themselves before the body was gone, but the oily featherbed caught and burned well with a harsh stink. I brought more branches to throw on our bone fire and be helped. She was always a pale little creature, and the chil black knight chalked her in the red firelight. Dancing on her face in the shock of hair made her some strange little death Sprite from an old tale. The pyre burned well, the flames reaching up higher than my head. They're light pushed the night back. Soon my face was uncomfortably warm and my back still cold. I braced myself against the heat to push the ends of the branches in to add more to the conflagration. The fire spoke crackling and hissing when I threw on a frost laden branch, the flames eight. Our secret be stood next to me but not touching me. And we watched the messenger burn. It takes a long time to burn a body. Most of it we spent in silence be had little to say. Other than what shall we tell the others? I sorted my thoughts Russian. We say nothing of this. She believes the girl left. We let riddle believe the same to the housekeeping staff. I will say that you complained of itchy bites and I found vermin in your bed. When I was putting you in it and decided to burn it immediately, I gave a small sigh and admitted it won't be fair to them. I must pretend to be very upset with them. I will demand that every bit of your clothing be washed fresh. A new bedding brought for you. She gave a single nod. She turned her eyes back to the fire. I gathered another armful of branches and threw them onto the place. The half burned limbs gave way under this fresh weight. Crumpling down on the embed remains. The featherbed whispered away is Downey ash. Were those blackened bones or blackened branches even I could not tell? The faint smell of roasting meat sickened me. You are very good at this. You have thought of everything. Not a compliment. I want to receive from my little daughter. I used to have to do special work for the King. I learned to think of many things at once and to lie very well and not let people see what you were thinking. That's too. I'm not proud of it. Be. But the secret that you heard tonight is not mine. It belongs to my very old friend. You heard what the messenger said. He has a son and that son is in danger. Could she hear in my voice how peculiar I thought this news? The fool had a son. I had never been absolutely certain of his masculinity. But if a child had been born. It must have come from a woman's womb. That meant that somewhere that that son had a mother, a woman who presumably the fool had loved. I thought that I had known him better than any other person never had. And yet this was something I never would have suspected.