The Chalice and the Crown

by Kassandra Flamouri

  “Middling odds,” Sadra says with a shrug. “This isn’t the safest area.”

  I let out a sharp breath through my nose and shoot a hard look at Sadra’s back. Frustrated though I am with Bard and Mother Wenla’s cryptic explanations, I’m not sure my need for answers is so great that I’m willing to take another beating for them. Whatever answers we get from this fledgling Maro had better be worth the risk.

  “Why do you have all these?” I ask as we hurry through the dimly lit streets.

  “All Temple initiates are provided with basic training and tools necessary to protect themselves,” Sadra says. “Initiates of my occupation are given more to ensure unsavory characters don’t take advantage. It’s no secret that Temple Companions are both beautiful and deadly. It adds to the prestige.”

  Not for the first time, a surge of mingled jealousy and admiration rises in my chest. Sadra is everything I’m not and can never be in my current state: free, capable, strong. But I know now that there’s hope. I will walk the Bird’s Path and one day I’ll be all those things…if I survive.

  I look around uneasily at the dark corners and eerie shadows of the City, struck again by the risk we’re taking. Raucous noise emanates from some buildings, ominous silence from others. The few City dwellers we come across move with hurried, furtive gaits, reinforcing Sadra’s warnings. Though the streets are clean—much cleaner, in fact, than many city streets I’ve seen back home—there’s still a whiff of something sour in the air.

  “In here,” Sadra says, pulling me through a dilapidated wooden door.

  I blink and wrinkle my nose against the smoky haze of the tavern. Torches line the wall, their flickering light an unsettling change after the steady illumination provided by globes of Light on the Terrace. The sounds and scents—and bodies—of rough men press against me as Sadra and I push our way through the crowd. I shift my shoulders, uncomfortably aware of the eyes following us across the room. There are times the invisibility of thralldom could be a blessing.

  I follow so close on Sadra’s heels that I run right into her when she stops.

  “Maro,” Sadra purrs, sliding into the lap of a greasy, bewhiskered pile of ale-soaked rags and tangled gray hair. “It’s been too long.”

  “You,” the lump growls. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to order a glass of wine for me and my friend here and take us upstairs.” She giggles, leaning in close to murmur, “Do as I say or you’ll wake in the morning with festering boils on your arse, you spineless little worm.”

  Maro gives her a look of deep dislike but lurches to his feet, calling loudly for wine and a room. At Sadra’s nod, I let him sling an arm around my shoulders and we stagger through the tavern amid a flurry of cat calls and howls of approval. When we reach the base of the stairs Maro turns and bows extravagantly to general applause and then pulls us into the shadowy stairwell.

  “Up there,” he says gruffly, giving us both a shove.

  Sadra motions for me to go first, placing herself between me and Maro. At the top of the stairs, I find a single door. Beyond it lies a dark, shabby room filled with even shabbier furniture. I enter and place myself against the wall, both out of habit and a reluctance to sit, as the only options are the bed and a rickety, moldy looking chair. Maro immediately flops backward onto the bed and throws an arm over his eyes. Sadra glances at the chair and then joins me against the wall.

  “So,” she says, crossing her arms. “I have some questions for you.”

  Maro grunts, belches, and lifts his head to peer at us through his hair. Despite his general sloppiness, his gaze is sharp.

  “You? Or your nestling, there?”

  I step forward to answer before Sadra can say anything. “The nestling. I need your help.”

  He grunts again. “What are you doing out and about, anyway? The peregrines must have left months ago.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Sadra says, giving me a warning look. “Our current case is…unique. Sasha can’t go back to her nest without some answers, and we’re not getting them from Bard.”

  “Ah, yes, our dear savior himself,” Maro sneers. “Anything to poke a stick in his eye. What do you want to know?”

  “Do you have any idea why Bard would have me wake Sasha so soon? Why would he take that risk?”

  “Perhaps he thought the risk of waiting was greater,” Maro says with a shrug.

  “The risk of what?” I ask, stepping forward.

  “Not all nestlings take flight,” he says. “If left too long, some never wake up. Not that that ever seemed to bother him before.”

  “So why would it bother him now?” Sadra wonders, glancing at me. I shrug, just as baffled as she is.

  “As to that, I couldn’t say.” Maro leers at me. “Your nestling’s a mighty pretty girl, though. Could be Bard’s finally developed a taste for something more than duty and honor and all that.”

  “Doubtful,” Sadra says. “There must be something…”

  “Might be her Gift he’s after, then.” Maro squints at me. “Any sign of it yet, girl?”

  “I—I don’t think so.” I never considered that I had a Gift.

  “Well, it’s not likely ’til the Pall is lifted,” he says. “Still, though, I can’t think what else he might be interested in. Lives and breathes for the Bird’s Path and the Apostate, that one.”

  “Can you tell me about the Apostate?” I ask. “Where is he, how do we get there, what happens when the Pall—”

  “Slow down, nestling,” Maro growls. “You’ll find the Apostate on an island in the South Sea.”

  “The South Sea,” Sadra cries. “But that’s on the other side of the Crown’s Teeth!”

  “The what?” I ask.

  “The mountains that ring Kingsgarden,” Sadra explains. “Untamable, unconquerable, filled with all sorts of man-eating beasts—both human and animal.”

  Maro snorts. “The Forest Folk don’t eat people, dolt. They just don’t like outsiders. But they like Lightcrafting even less and tolerate Bard’s little enterprise on account of it. They think Light’s unnatural, see. An abomination.”

  “Who is the Apostate?” I ask. “Does he have a name?”

  “Sure he does,” Maro says. “I think it’s Porr. Parr? Somethin’ like that. Never cared much, myself. And he don’t care about us, neither, not unless we’re willing to lay our lives down for him. If’n you won’t be one of his damned Birds they just cut you loose to starve or die in the streets.”

  “Oh, have mercy.” Sadra snorts, rolling her eyes. “You were given a more than generous allowance to get you started. It’s not the Path’s fault you drank it up in weeks. You could have—”

  “I could have what?” he snarls. “My Gift is weaker than a newborn rat and useless to boot. I was a bookkeeper in my old life. I can’t hunt, can’t fight, I don’t know nothin’ about farming. And I can’t keep books here, can I, not knowing the runes and all? All I’m fit for in this world is what I’m doing—cleaning the gutters and drinking myself into an early grave. This isn’t my place. I don’t belong here.” His eyes cut to me. “You listen, nestling, when you get the chance, you think hard on what you choose.”

  “Choose?” I repeat, my heart pounding. “What do you mean? Is it possible to go back?”

  “Ah, he hasn’t told you, has he?” Maro gives an unpleasant smile. “Well. Boils or no boils, I think I’ve said enough.”

  His smile widens, revealing a mouthful of yellowed, rotting teeth. He laughs and looks me right in the eyes. “Yes, I think I’ve said more than enough.”

  * * *

  “Well,” Sadra says as we slip out of the tavern. “That conversation wasn’t unfruitful.”

  “Why wouldn’t he tell us what happens when the Pall is lifted?” I wonder fretfully. “It must be something terrible.”

  “Not necessarily,” Sadra says, though she sounds uneasy. “It could just be Maro being Maro. He’d think it a great joke to give you a fright over nothing. Though h
e’ll find it less funny when he wakes tomorrow with those boils.”

  “Can you really do that?” I wonder.

  “I can and I will,” she says darkly as we turn a corner. “And it’ll serve him right, the filthy little—”

  She cuts herself off and slows, taking hold of my arm. Six men lounge against a low wall some ten yards away, watching us with the lazy interest of sleepy lions surveying a couple of stray zebras.

  “If it comes to trouble, stay behind me and get your back against a wall,” Sadra mutters to me. To the men, she says, “A fine evening to you, gentlemen.”

  Her voice is firm and friendly, betraying no trace of fear or even concern. I try to mimic her confident stride, but I’m afraid I’m doing a poor job of it. The men seem to think so, too: One of them grins wolfishly at me and nudges the man next to him.

  “It’ll be finer still in but a moment,” he says. “Once you hand over them pretty jewels and whatever coin you got. Them dresses ain’t too shabby, neither. Better give us those, too.”

  The man’s companions guffaw, slapping him on the back and praising his wit in gleeful hoots.

  “I think not,” Sadra says politely. “A daughter of the Temple of Graces can’t be seen walking the streets naked, now can she?”

  The man falters at that, but quickly rallies even as the others begin to mutter.

  “What would a Temple initiate be doing in the lower city at this time of night, eh?” he demands, giving one of his friends a shove. “She ain’t nothin’ but a lying bitch what needs t’be taught a lesson—in the name of the Temple’s honor, like. It’s a killin’ offense to impersonate an initiate, girlie, you know that? But we’s fair and merciful types, ain’t we, lads? We’ll leave you your life and take your coin—and whatever else you have to offer in the way of compensation. Seems only right.”

  “Yes, quite,” Sadra says. “And I shall certainly extend you the same courtesy, for you must know that it is also a killing offense to attack a Temple initiate.” She tugs down the neck of her gown to reveal her Mark. A couple of the men blanche, but their leader only sneers.

  “Enough,” he snarls. “Get ‘em, lads!”

  Sadra pushes me back until I hit the wall of what looks like an abandoned tavern on the opposite side of the street. The men fan out as they approach, flipping knives from hand to hand and cracking their knuckles.

  Sadra produces a curved blade seemingly from nowhere which she holds with a firm, easy grip. I pull the pin out of my hair with shaking hands, silently cursing everyone and everything that led us to this point. I take a breath and force my hand to steady. At least one of these apes is going to feel its sting.

  Steeling myself, I step forward. But Sadra dispatches the leader before I can even blink, knocking his blade away as it passes from one hand to the other and sweeping her own across his throat. The others pause as he slumps to the ground, then approach more cautiously. Their rough laughter and banter are gone, replaced by cold, calculating malice. Sadra falls into a defensive crouch and hisses at them to get on with it. I copy her stance, my fingers tight on my hair pin.

  The remaining five burst into motion all at once, three attacking Sadra head on and two circling around to get to me. I focus on my attackers, knowing I can do nothing for Sadra. They’re hard, ugly brutes with rotten teeth and lank, greasy hair. But, ugly as they are, they each have six inches and at least seventy pounds on me. I can’t count on them being slow, either, as they look to be all muscle.

  I flick my thumb against my ring and raise my hand to my lips, blowing just as my first assailant reaches for me. A cloud of grayish powder catches him full in the face and he stumbles away, choking and wheezing. I dart past him and plunge my hair pin into the arm of the second man. He lets out a wild shriek of pain and falls to the ground, convulsing.

  I back away and turn to see Sadra fending off the last two thieves with vicious swipes of her knife. My stomach turns over. She gave her most valuable weapons to me—that knife is all she has! I look at the pin in my hand, wondering if it’s only good for one use and if I can get it into one of the thieves without getting in Sadra’s way. Probably not. But what can I do? I can see that Sadra is tiring, and so can the thieves. They taunt her now, using words so filthy I don’t know what they mean.

  The one I hit with tear-powder seems to be recovering. Before he can get his hands under him to push himself off the ground, I lean over and slam his head into the ground. He lies still.

  Sadra is still fighting, but with a hint of desperation now. Cuts adorn her hands and arms, and she’s breathing heavily. I hover uncertainly until the second of Sadra’s opponents notices me. I see it in his eyes when he decides that I’d make an easier target. I lift my skirts and run.

  Panting and silently cursing the skirts, I dash up a street which I think leads to the Temple. Heavy footsteps pound behind me, drawing closer. A cold sweat breaks out along my back and shoulders. I’m not going to make it—he’s going to catch me. Without stopping to think, I skid to a halt and turn in the same motion, screaming as loud as I can right in my attackers face. It’s enough to make him hesitate—only for a moment, but a moment is all I need to plunge my hairpin into his left eye. He shrieks and staggers away, clutching his face. One of his flailing arms catches me in the chest. I stumble backward and catch the hem of my skirt under my heel.

  A pair of strong arms catch me as I fall, winding around my waist and pressing me back against a hard, muscled, very male torso. I twist away, thinking it’s another thug, but it’s only a dark-haired young man with his hands up in a deliberately non-threatening pose. Though his face is in shadow, something about his broad-shouldered, lanky form seems familiar.

  My gaze falls to the fox sitting at his feet, and my memory flashes on the scene of Cimari’s betrothal. He was there! The man with the fox—he was angry that the Premier had killed a little bird to summon Pretty Girl. And now he’s here, staring down at me with bewilderment and concern.

  I back away and blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “What are you doing here?”

  The man raises his eyebrows, his green eyes sparking in the light of a lantern. “Have we met?”

  Crap. What can I say to that? Nothing that isn’t dangerous or stupid or both.

  “I need help,” I say instead. “Those thieves—there are more of them. Please, my friend is—”

  “Show me where,” the man says, and runs with me back to where I left Sadra.

  The street is empty. My gaze skitters frantically over the bloody cobblestones as I search for Sadra.

  “No,” I breathe. “She was here, she was—”

  “Shh,” my companion says, laying his hand on the small of my back. “Listen.”

  It’s hard to hear anything over the noise of my own harsh breathing. But after a moment, I make out the sound of men jeering and laughing. I bolt in that direction with the fox and his master hard on my heels. We find Sadra cornered in an alley by three men. Reinforcements, or maybe they just wanted in on the fun. My blood boils. But I don’t know what I can do. My last weapon is stuck in an eyeball somewhere.

  The dark-haired man doesn’t hesitate. He draws two knives at once and wades into the fray, plunging his blades into his first opponent before the man even realizes he’s there. The fox leaps for the throat of the second but gets a hand instead. The fox’s victim yelps and whips the fox around, trying to dislodge him. The last of the thieves faces off with my new friend, leaving Sadra free to slump to the ground in exhaustion. I edge around the violence and drop to my knees beside her.

  “Are you alright?” I ask, wringing my hands as I scan her body for injuries.

  “Fine,” she pants. “Who—oh, no. Lucoran?”

  “So that’s his name,” I mutter. “I’m sorry. He just showed up, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Sadra rubs a hand across her forehead, leaving a streak of blood. “You were right, Sasha. This was a stupid—watch out.”

  I spin, crouching protect
ively over Sadra as the fox’s victim lumbers toward us. The fox himself lies some feet away, shaking his head dazedly.

  Something nudges my hand; I take it, trying to hold the knife the way Sadra did, but it feels clumsy and foreign in my hand. Though he has no weapons, the thief grins, sensing my lack of skill. He approaches with eager steps.

  “Don’t hesitate,” Sadra whispers.

  Terror sets my nerves ablaze, its fire driving me forward in a swift, silent rush. I drive my knife straight toward the thief’s belly, but he twists, seizing my wrist with one enormous hand and forcing me to the ground with the other. He squeezes my wrist and the knife clatters to the ground, out of my reach. Frozen with horror, I stare up at his toothless grin.

  Then the fox is there, snapping at the man’s face. In his shock, he lets my wrist go and falls backward. I’m on my feet before he hits the ground. Without hesitation, I stomp on his lower belly with all my strength. The thief goes white, clutching himself in almost comically exaggerated agony.

  “Well done,” a voice says in my ear.

  I whirl around, my hands curling instinctively into claws. But it’s only the dark-haired man, Lucoran, Sadra called him.

  “See to your friend,” he suggests. “I’ll clean up.”

  I take his advice and help Sadra to her feet, trying very hard not to hear the sound of a sudden wet gurgling behind me. Sadra hugs me, her arms tight around my shoulders.

  “Can you ever forgive me?” she asks.

  “You were right, we never should have left the Temple. You could have been killed.”

  “I could have been killed?” I ask incredulously. “What about you?”

  She smiles weakly. “Oh, those rats never had a chance.”

  Despite her brave words, I can tell she’s shaken. There’s an almost imperceptible tremor in her hands that tells me just how close she came to losing the fight—and her life. Very deliberately, I set aside the rest of that thought and look around for Lucoran. He’s finished with the last of our attackers and is fastidiously wiping the blood off his knives.