by M. J. Kuhn
“Get that Quill,” Tristan’s father snapped at his guards. “I’ll get this fool.” The voice lowered, sounding directly into his ear. “I trust you remember what patience I have for fools, my son?”
None. Tristan meant to say the word aloud, but it was too late. Consciousness left him. The last thing he felt before sinking into senselessness was his father’s iron grasp on his wrist.
39
RYIA
Ryia plunged through the smoke, charging toward the cushioned seats. What in Felice’s bitterest hell had happened back there? The Kinetic had been about half a second from punching a hole through her throat when she had just… stopped. Blinked. Then pulled her arm back, exactly mimicking the motions of one Tristan fucking Beckett. He’d had the Quill in one hand and had clearly saved her ass with the other. Just when she was ready to cut his throat, he had to go and be the twice-damned hero of the day? Unfair.
Even more unfair was the fact that, somehow, he had puzzled out the secret she had never quite managed to—that Declan Day’s relic did more than just find the Adept, marking their positions on a map with magical, moving ink spots. She had felt like there was a piece of the puzzle missing all this time, and Tristan had just shown her the answer. Tolliver Shadowwood had never meant to grow his army from newborn Adept… he had meant to build it by taking full-grown Adept from their masters.
Somehow Declan Day had figured out how to sap the humanity from his own fucking people, placing control inside that oversized writing stick. It must have been part of the training on that island—some sort of cleansing or something—that wiped those poor island-raised Adept blank before their mainland masters sauntered over to the auction block to buy them. The thought made her sick. If there had been any doubt before, there was none now. That Quill needed to be destroyed. The sooner the better.
Evelyn’s seat had been ripped apart, her sword missing from beneath the cushion. No doubt she was already in the thick of it, shouting about everyone’s lack of honor and clashing steel with anyone who came too close. Ryia suppressed a smile at the image and ripped the cushion from the other wide, overstuffed seat, sending sheep’s-wool padding flying everywhere.
Her weapons still lay inside, just where she had tucked them earlier. She peered around the room as she cinched the belt on tight. No sign of Clem. Good. She needed to get to that back booth before he did.
She skirted the edge of the chaos, fingers caressing the handles of her hatchets on her back.
“Sorry about that, loves,” she muttered to them as she ducked out of the way of a drunken man screaming about a medev attack. “I won’t be leaving you again, I promise.”
The smoke from the Trän vun Yavol filled her nostrils. Felice, it was thick in the center of the pit. If she could just push her way out to the edge of the room, it would be thinner… then she wouldn’t have to stumble around like a newborn kitten. She felt her way forward, pausing at the sound of a menacing voice.
“I trust you remember what patience I have for fools, my son?”
Ryia pushed forward another step. The smoke was already starting to thin. Her eyes screwed up in confusion as she caught sight of the speaker. Tolliver Shadowwood… talking to Tristan Beckett.
Son?
No fucking way.
Without thinking, she pulled a hatchet from her back, moving toward them. Tristan was unconscious now, limp in the Mad King’s grasp.
“Hands off,” she said to Shadowwood, summoning every ounce of the energy that made the Butcher of Carrowwick so infamous. “He belongs to the Saints of the Wharf. You’re going to want to stay out of this.”
“Ryia, no! The Quill!”
The voice was Evelyn’s. She was fighting her way through a knot of Crowns some ten feet away, her slender sword whirling through the thinning smoke. She pointed at the corner booth, just a few steps from where Ryia was standing. One of Shadowwood’s guards held Wyatt Asher at sword point. Three more Shadow Wardens closed in on the Quill.
Her breath caught. There it was. So close. And Shadowwood’s men were going to steal it away.
She shook her head, looking back at Tristan, but he and the king were already gone. Shadowwood might have wanted the Quill, but he was clearly too chickenshit to fight for it himself.
Forget Tristan. The Quill was all that mattered.
Throwing axe in hand, she turned back to the knot of Edalish soldiers crowding the Quill. “Hate to break up the party here,” she said, flinging the axe at no one in particular.
The closest Shadow Warden turned on the spot, lifting his sword in the span of a hummingbird’s wingbeat. He would have been fast enough if anyone else had thrown that axe, but Ryia had an unfair advantage. She pushed out with her Kinetic power, flinging the blade wide and bringing it back to impale the poor warden right in the groin. A cheap shot, but effective. He went down hard. She reeled the axe back in with her power, returning it to her belt. That left two Shadow Wardens between her and the Quill.
She pulled out both long-handled hatchets, swinging them around her wrists to dispel the last few tendrils of smoke. “Who’s first?” she asked.
The warden on the left looked over her shoulder. “Them,” he said with a smirk.
A whiff of danger suddenly pressed against her nostrils, but it was too late. Two Kinetics with Shadowwood brands on their cheeks sprang from the churning crowd. She flung her right arm out, catching the first in the forehead with the butt of her hatchet, but the second was too strong. He didn’t even use his body to restrain her, just his power, tying her in place with intangible ropes, like the Guildmaster had.
He was old. Old enough that he should have smile lines around his eyes, but, of course, there were none. This man hadn’t smiled since he was a child. When she looked at his face, she saw nothing but cold, unfeeling strength. Not a person. Just a weapon.
Fuck that.
This wasn’t just about her and her freedom anymore, was it? This was about the freedom of everyone unfortunate enough to be born with a touch of magic. She had always had pity for the mainland Adept, but now she was what, their freedom fighter? Damn Evelyn for poisoning her brain with these stupid noble thoughts.
She thrashed against her invisible chains, letting her hatchets fall to the floor. “Don’t you see what I’m trying to do here?” she yelled at him, fully aware that it was pointless.
The Kinetic didn’t budge, just stared at her blankly. Over his shoulder, Ryia saw one Shadow Warden scoop the Quill from the floor, then snag the rolled-up map from the tabletop. It would take only seconds for him to follow his king out the back door, and the Quill would be gone, lost in the night.
Hopelessness was just starting to sink its teeth into her. Then a freckled hand darted into view, stabbing a slender sword point into the Kinetic’s sandaled foot.
His aged face didn’t show the pain, but he obviously felt it somewhere deep inside that brainwashed shell, because his concentration broke. That instant was all Ryia needed. She jerked sideways, diving out of his line of sight.
“Get that ruddy Quill so we can end this already!” Evelyn shouted. Ryia hesitated. Evelyn gave a shadow of a smile. “I’m right behind you.”
Ryia grabbed her axes, somersaulting into the Shadow Wardens’ midst. The one she had taken out with the groin shot was still down, but Wyatt Asher appeared to have fled the scene, leaving her facing three of the bastards again. Callum Clem was suspiciously nowhere to be found.
“Hello again,” she said slyly. “You’re going to want to give me that Quill. Unless you’re interested in meeting Adalina face-to-face tonight.”
The Shadow Warden holding the Quill drew himself to his full height. “Keep your threats, street rat. This belongs to King Tolliver Shadowwood.”
Ryia shrugged. “Just remember, I tried to be reasonable.”
She transformed into a whirling blur of steel as the other two Shadow Wardens charged. She thrust her hatchets overhead. The bits blocked both swords easily, knocking them aside as though
they were feathers. She grabbed the shoulders of the closest warden, pulling him in front of her. His eyes grew wide as his comrade’s sword glanced off the chest plate of his armor, nearly impaling him.
Ryia vaulted over the warden’s shoulders, catching a glimpse of the last Shadow Warden—the one who had taken the Quill and map—through the still-frantic crowd. She latched on to the rafters, swinging back and forth like a Gildesh acrobat. She released her grip, barreling into the man’s back.
He had at least fifty pounds on her, but she had surprise on her side. He crashed to the ground. His fingers lost their grip as she slammed his wrists against the floorboards. They struggled, kicking and scratching like animals. The warden’s arms flailed, scoring a line of the Quill’s dark red ink down the side of Ryia’s arm. Ryia jammed an elbow into his face. He fell back as his nose shattered. Ryia tucked one hatchet away, clenching the Quill protectively, her pulse beating throughout her entire body.
“Give your boss my regards,” she said, reaching down to grab the map as well. “And let him know I’m coming for him.”
“Time to go, Butcher.” Evelyn streaked past her, the Kinetic not far behind. The captain hopped onto the table and clumsily scaled the wall, pulling herself up into the rafters. “I see a way out—do you trust me?”
Do you trust me? She didn’t trust anyone—had she not made that clear? But Ryia’s certainty weakened as her eyes jumped to Evelyn’s left hand. To the bare middle finger where her father’s ring had once sat.
Ryia wrapped the map tightly around the Quill, then clamped the whole bundle between her teeth. She cast one last glance at the Shadow Wardens and Kinetics. Still no sign of Clem, but there was no way that luck would hold for much longer. She sprang from the floor to the rafters in a single bound. The chaos of the crowd covered their tracks as she followed Evelyn out the second-story window and onto the rooftop beyond.
Adrenaline carried them over crumbling shingles and moldering gables. They finally skidded to a stop on top of the wall along the southern dock, the Saints’ territory to their left, the rushing current of the Arden to their right. Ryia pulled the Quill from between her teeth, slid it free of the rolled map, and set it down on the wall between them. It was still, lying on its side rather than hovering over the map the way it had back in the bell tower.
Evelyn pulled a matchbook from her cloak pocket and held it out to Ryia.
Ryia looked from the tightly rolled map to the matches, then back again. “You sure you’re in? Once this thing is gone, there’s no turning back. Declan Day built it for a reason.” Anarchy and chaos, that was what they would sow. Was that really something the captain was ready for?
Evelyn’s freckles almost seemed to dance in the moonlight as she set her jaw in her familiar, stubborn way. “A shite reason. Let the bastard’s legacy burn.”
Ryia stared at her for a second, then let out a snort of amazed laughter.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Ryia said, eyes flashing mischievously at her as she struck the match. “I just think I’m finally starting to rub off on you.”
“About damned time.”
“Care to do the honors?” Ryia held the burning match out.
Evelyn took a deep breath, then thrust the ancient parchment into the match’s tiny flame. Ryia’s heart stuttered as the flames licked over it, slowly chewing through every last one of the secrets the map had held. They sat in silence as its ashes floated away on the wind, listening to the sounds of chaos still raging from the direction of the Catacombs.
Next came the Quill itself. Ryia hefted her right-hand hatchet. She blinked back tears of relief as she brought it down, swinging it with every last ounce of strength inside her. Two swift chops was all it took. Red ink spilled from the Quill like blood from a beast. And just like that, Declan Day’s foul relic was defeated. Ryia kicked the remaining splinters into the Arden, watching the churning waters claim them, sucking them down to the depths. Lost forever.
It was over.
“Now what?” Evelyn asked after an impossibly long silence.
Now what. Their alliance was over, wasn’t it? Ryia swallowed the emotion leaping up her throat. “What do you mean?” she said gruffly. “Now nothing. It’s done.”
Another long silence. Then: “You know I’m still coming with you, right?”
Ryia kept her face immobile as something crackled in the pit of her belly. Was this what hope felt like? She stifled the emotion with a chuckle. “You might not be so sure about that once I tell you where I’m going.”
“Where…” Evelyn broke off, studying her with what looked like satisfaction. Or maybe pride. “You’re going after him, aren’t you? Tristan. Dennison. Whatever we’re supposed to call him now.”
“Yep,” Ryia said, looking out over the coastline to avoid Evelyn’s eye. A few months ago, she would never have considered anything like the rescue mission she was currently planning, but the captain had rubbed off on her, too. Slowly, Evelyn was chipping away at the thick protective layers she had coated herself with for years, clearing the way for feelings like trust, guilt, and forgiveness. It was inconvenient to say the least. But she had to admit, she didn’t hate it. “What can I say? The little bastard grew on me. And I’m pretty sure he saved my life back there.” She paused. Then: “They’re heading for the Shadow Keep.”
The fortress of Edale had never been breached. Not by thieves, assassins, armies. Probably not even by a damned cockroach. It was impregnable. Evelyn had risked a lot to help her destroy the Quill, but that had been to save the twice-damned world. Ryia doubted the captain would risk her life—not to mention her honor—again just to help her save one man.
“In that case, I’m definitely coming.”
Ryia’s head snapped back around. “What?”
“If you’re going to break into the Shadow Keep, you’re going to need help. Anyone with half a brain can see that.”
The fledgling hope in Ryia’s gut exploded with the fiery sparks of some other emotion. She tried to put her finger on it. Joy?
“Half a brain?” she asked, cocking her head playfully. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit generous to yourself there, Captain?”
Evelyn’s face split into a slow grin. “Fuck off.”
The scents of danger washed away with the rhythmic breaths of the Yawning Sea as they turned and sprinted along the narrow rooflines. Together they disappeared into the velvet night, a pair of shadows on the wind.
EPILOGUE
CALLUM CLEM
The shadows sucked the world into their gaping maw as the sky outside the hatch faded from orange to purple to black. Callum Clem rose from his pitted wooden chair, loping across the hold of Nash’s newest ship as waves churned beneath his feet. Boots stomped across the deck overhead. Not many; there were only four bodies on board other than Clem himself. Ivan and Nash, of course, and Clem’s two Adept servants, hard-won in his negotiations with Hackle Holdings just over a month before. Clem grabbed a ragged scrap of cloth from the table, dipping it into a waiting bucket of water.
Watching himself in the mirror, he ran the scratchy fabric over his neck. Rivulets of black ink ran down his bare chest as the tattoo Ivan had drawn there washed away. The kestrel’s left eye went first, then its right. He had cut away the real tattoo from his knuckle when he had left Asher’s floundering syndicate all those years ago, but he still recalled the exact lines. Something Asher was clearly too careless to consider.
He drew a match across the tabletop, lighting the candle beside him. It was nearly expired, a dripping puddle of wax surrounding a wisp of guttering flame. Nowhere near as magnificent as his chandelier back on the southern dock. He wouldn’t be going back there. Not now, for certain. Perhaps not ever. But there would be other chandeliers.
He looked out the hatch again, watching the rounded spires of the Bobbin Fort fade into the distance. There was no more Callum Clem. No more Snake of the Southern Dock. He had instructed Nash to leave a surrogate corpse in the
Catacombs. Some old drunk they’d found in the gutter, one about his own size and weight. Once the face had been disfigured beyond recognition and the body marked with his trademark scars and tattoos it had been convincing enough. By morning everyone in the city would think him dead. Good. If there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that dead men were far freer than live ones.
No one would be surprised to hear of his demise, and he couldn’t imagine Wyatt Asher would deny that the Kestrel Crowns had killed him. After all, it had been his dearest wish for near two decades now.
After a time, Asher might even start to believe the rumors himself. He knew the Saints had infiltrated the Catacombs. How could any of them have made it out with the Crowns watching every door? But there were things about the city that Wyatt Asher did not know. An unforgivable weakness for the man who would claim to be her true king.
He knew that Carrowwick was built into a valley, or at least Clem assumed he knew that much, but he had probably never stopped to consider how foolish that had been. A city built on the coastline at the lowest spot in the hillside, in a place where it rained nearly half the year. Asher hadn’t bothered to learn how, in the years before the Seven Decades’ War, drains had been built beneath the city, to keep the rains from washing Dresdell’s capital into the Yawning Sea.
If Asher had known that, he would never have placed his flagship tavern in one of the new buildings. Many of the new buildings in the city were built directly over those old drains, which created a network of tunnels. Of course, it was good for Clem that Asher had known none of these things, otherwise his path to the sea wouldn’t have been so clear. Just a few pried-up floorboards behind the Catacomb’s bar rail and half a mile of sloshing through ancient filth. Then, freedom.
