Dark Skies

by Danielle L. Jensen

  Instead of answering, he twisted one arm behind her back, then reached up with one hand to grip the side of her jaw. Ready to break her neck.

  “Please,” she sobbed. “You can’t do this. I haven’t done anything to you. You don’t even know me!”

  His voice sounded strangled as he said, “I do know you.”

  She fought to free her wrist from his grip, her body screaming as her muscles strained beyond their limits.

  “I didn’t remember until Cassius mentioned your library.” His breathing was ragged. “Though I remember it as your father’s library.”

  She met his gaze, and memory made blurry by years and youth stole over her. Of a friend who went away and then came back changed. Became someone who wasn’t her friend at all.

  “I’m sorry, Lydia.”

  The muscles of his arms tensed, and she sucked in a deep breath and screamed, “Help me! Someone help me!”

  With a roar, the current surged, slamming against them with incredible force.

  His hand slipped from her chin to grasp the edge of the drain, but Lydia fell backward, only his grip on her other wrist keeping the water from sucking her down the tunnel. Her body twisted, her arm crying out in agony.

  She reached desperately with her other hand, trying to catch hold of the edge of the drain, but it was too far. Straining her neck to get her head above the flow, she gasped in a breath and at the same time, she saw his lips move, and she swore they formed the words, “Hold on.”

  He pulled and hope flooded through her veins. But her wrist was slipping through his grasp, his grip failing even as she caught hold of his arm with her other hand, feeling his muscles strain beneath her fingers as he struggled against the current.

  Then the water twisted and surged, wrapping around her ankles like a pair of liquid hands, and with a violent tug Lydia was torn into blackness.

  She clawed at the sides of the tunnel, searching for an opening and for air.

  Then she was falling.

  The impact drove what air remained in her lungs out in a stream of bubbles. The current dragged her back under, flipped her around and around before spewing her free. Her head broke the surface, and she gasped, steamy air filling her chest.

  The blackness surrounding her was absolute, but her hand still drifted up to right her lost spectacles as though they could’ve pierced the darkness. The current pulled her away from the thunder of falling water, and around her was nothing but empty air. A void.

  It didn’t last.

  The pool flowed into a tunnel and her feet banged against rocks on the river floor, her arms soon battered and bleeding from guarding her head against the unseen obstacles hanging from the increasingly low ceiling. Lydia dug her nails into the slimy surface of the rock, and she screamed.

  The sound reverberated through the tunnels, bouncing off rock and water. It was all for naught. No one could hear her. And even if they could, there was no way to reach her. She thrashed, furious and afraid.

  The current ripped her free, and water closed over her head. One deep breath, and it will be over. One breath …

  She opened her mouth, but air rather than water filled her lungs, light bursting bright in her eyes, illuminating a cavern. The underground river poured into it, creating a circular flow that she was powerless to evade. Circular, because there was no tunnel from which it could drain.

  Yet it would never fill.

  Round and round the water went, dragging her toward the center of the pool where a reverse vortex rose toward the faintly glowing stem of crystal suspended from the ceiling, the water disappearing into it.

  A xenthier genesis.

  Lydia fought the flow, trying to reach the walls of the cavern. There was no way to know where the crystal would take her. How far it would take her. And as much as she knew that to stay here would mean her death, the unknown terrified her.

  Around the water whipped her, and she thought of Lucius’s cruel laughter as he walked through those golden doors.

  Around, and she remembered the feel of the legatus’s hand gripping her jaw, about to break her neck.

  Around, and her heart twisted with the knowledge that Teriana was imprisoned, her father being slowly poisoned.

  The xenthier might lead to the unknown, but the unknown was somewhere, and from somewhere she could find her way back. To voice the truth. To save her friend. To take her revenge.

  Lydia stopped fighting the current and, with the last of her strength, surged up out of the water and closed her fingers around the crystal’s tip.

  17

  KILLIAN

  Groaning, Killian flopped back on Malahi’s bed, feeling the feather mattress sink beneath his weight. The silken pillows moved against each other with a soft rasp and, reaching sideways, he plucked one up and pressed it to his eyes to block out the lamplight, wishing nothing more than to fall asleep.

  “You could at least pretend to be paying attention, Lord Calorian.”

  Malahi’s muffled voice filled his ears, and despite his exhaustion, Killian smiled into the pillow.

  “What degree of protection can you possibly provide from across the room buried in a pile of my pillows? Are you even awake?”

  “Quite awake,” he replied with a yawn. “Do let me know if one of the servants attempts to stab you with a brush and I’ll be at your defense in an instant.”

  She made a decidedly unladylike snort, and through the pillow he heard her murmur at the servants to depart. Seconds later, the pillow lifted upward only to fly back down with blinding speed to strike him in the face.

  Killian gave her a lazy smile. “Is that a new dress?”

  He barely managed to get his arm up in time to prevent another blow from the pillow.

  “You could at least pretend,” she said, then dropped a letter on his chest. “Read this.”

  Even without opening his eyes, he knew what it was: correspondence between her and the absent High Lords. Initially, her letters’ purpose had been twofold: to convey Malahi’s desire to replace her father on the throne and to suggest that her hand in marriage would be the reward given to one of the men who helped make it so. With that achieved, her letters now dripped with flattery and innuendo, all designed to make the High Lord receiving them certain that he, or his son, would be the one Malahi chose to stand in the god circle with and swear herself to.

  Sighing, Killian opened his eyes and glanced at the salutation, recognized the handwriting, and tossed it aside. “I told you, I’m not helping you with your correspondence with my brother. The rest, yes, but not Hacken. I have to draw the line somewhere.”

  “But he’s the cleverest and I can’t tell if he’s being genuine.” Malahi picked up the letter. “You understand him.”

  It was Killian’s turn to snort. “That I do not. We can barely stand to be in the same room together.”

  Malahi huffed out a breath. “Why don’t you understand that half the reason he dislikes you so much is that he’s jealous of you?”

  “Hacken thinks I’m an idiot. He’s told me so on several occasions.”

  “And he’s not wrong. You most certainly are an idiot. But neither am I wrong about him being jealous—he’s no better than the rest of them.”

  “You’re talking about the wealthiest, most powerful men in the realm, Highness. I’m nothing more than a glorified soldier. Albeit one with deep pockets and the right name.”

  The pillow descended again with violent force.

  “You,” Malahi said, once she was through beating him, “are the handsome, god-marked warrior with at least a dozen songs written about him. All my ladies swoon when you walk into the room. You’re the one they imagine riding in on a white horse—”

  “My horse is black,” he interrupted, which she rewarded with another smack of the pillow.

  “On a black horse to save them when they are in distress.”

  “Why can’t anyone ride in to save me when I’m in distress?”

  “Killian.” She leaned ov
er the bed to meet his gaze. “My point is, you can do things that they cannot, despite all their power and wealth and privilege. Don’t think for a heartbeat they don’t resent that fact, or that their resentment didn’t factor into them standing by when my father planned to execute you.”

  “They didn’t act because they were afraid, Highness. You’re braver than the lot of them.”

  Her cheeks colored, and she looked away. “I hate it when you’re sentimental. It irritates me.”

  “So sorry.” Reaching up, Killian caught hold of her waist and lifted, flipping her upside down and ignoring her shrieks of protest as her skirts tangled around her face before dropping her on her back on the bed next to him.

  “You messed up my hair,” she said, fumbling to get her skirts back around her ankles. She was quiet for a moment, and then she said, “You must hold your tongue around Helene. I know you don’t like her, but she’s High Lord Torrington’s heir. One day she’ll be High Lady, and I’d like to be assured of her support.”

  “That support is hardly predicated on her opinion of your bodyguard.”

  Malahi’s jaw flexed, and she opened her mouth, then closed it again before saying, “You’ll be the commander of the Royal Army, which is something she will care about.”

  Killian shrugged, turning his head to stare up at the ceiling. “Have you decided which one of them you’d prefer to marry, assuming they allow you the choice?”

  “I’ll choose no one until after the war is won,” she answered. “And then I’ll choose the man I feel is best for Mudamora. The man the people will want as their king.”

  The bed shook as he laughed. “Then you best prepare yourself for a life of spinsterhood.”

  “Thank you for your wisdom and insight, Killian. As always, it is so very helpful.”

  He smirked; then prickles rushed across his skin, the sensation so intense, it hurt. Rolling off the bed, he strode to the window, shoving aside the curtains to look out over the ocean, eyes drawn east to the dark horizon. Blood roared through his veins, his heart beating like a battering ram inside his chest.

  “It will be you who wins this war, Killian. It has to be you. The Marked need to lead, not to be led. It’s what the gods want. It’s why they chose us.”

  Killian only vaguely heard Malahi’s voice, twitching as her hand caught hold of his forearm. “I need to go into the city.”

  Her fingers tightened. “Send one of the guards.”

  “It’s getting dark, so it’s better I go. Besides”—he forced a grin onto his face—“if I’m not at the dinner table, you won’t have to worry about me squabbling with Helene.”

  Malahi didn’t laugh, only looked up at him, her eyes searching his before she finally looked away, shoulders bowing. “Fine. Go.”

  “I won’t be long.”

  Retrieving his sword, Killian abandoned Malahi to her courtiers and allowed the compulsion guiding his steps to drag him out into the rapidly approaching night.

  18

  LYDIA

  A blast of pressure hit Lydia in the chest, tossing her backward. The impact knocked the wind out of her lungs, warm water closing over her head, and she thrashed for several painful seconds trying to gain her footing. Then spent several more seconds coming to terms with the fact that she was no longer underground.

  Mud oozed between her toes as she stood, body shaking. A blast of wind hit her wet torso, the air stinking like a fetid swamp, and she hunched down in the warm water, taking in her blurry surroundings but struggling to process them. She was alive. But where was she?

  Keeping low in the water, Lydia turned in a circle, searching the trees surrounding the spring for any signs of life, but she could see nothing in the shadows. Nothing that gave her even the slightest clue to where the xenthier had taken her. So she looked up. The sunlight was faint: dusk or dawn.

  It had been an hour past dawn in Celendrial, which meant if the sun was rising here, she had to be on the western coast of Sibern—it was the only place in the Empire that wouldn’t be in full daylight. And Sibern wasn’t the worst place to be. All she would need to do was find her way to one of the port towns and secure passage on a ship back to Celendrial, which she should be able to do on credit using her father’s name. Then it was only a matter of getting to her father before Vibius murdered him.

  Lucius would pay. And blackmail or not, so would his henchman of a legatus.

  I do know you. Marcus’s words echoed in her thoughts, and she dug deep into her mind, the memories of playing among the library shelves with a young boy so faded as to be nearly useless.

  And she had more pressing concerns. Sibern was a wild place full of wolves and bears and mountain lions, with nights that would turn cold even in the summer. And she was barefoot wearing only a silken bathrobe.

  “It will be fine,” she muttered. “You just need to follow the spring down to the coast. It can’t be that far. Just wait for the sun to come up and start walking.”

  Lydia stared at the faint glow of the sun, waiting for it to brighten. Waiting for it to illuminate whatever place the xenthier had deposited her.

  Waiting.

  But around her, the forest grew almost imperceptibly darker, and a tremor stole over her body.

  It was not dawn. She was not facing east. The spring was not flowing to the western coast of Sibern.

  It was dusk.

  Which meant she was on the far side of the world.

  The Dark Shores.

  The forest around Lydia spun, her knees trembling beneath her, and she lowered herself into the water, gripping the slimy stones for balance.

  Her chest tightened painfully, her breath coming in fast little gasps that didn’t give her enough air. She’d never been outside Celendor. Never traveled with anything less than a full escort. And now she was in an entirely foreign place with no clothing. No coin. No knowledge of who or what she might encounter.

  The Maarin will be here. You just need to find them. They will help you.

  But finding them meant finding the coast. Pushing herself upright, Lydia climbed to her feet and walked down the bank of the stream, wincing as rocks and the roots of trees bit into the soles of her feet. It didn’t take her long to reach the edge of what was not a forest but a lone copse of dying trees. Her eyes went to the setting sun, blazing bright and orange over a vast range of tall and jagged peaks. Yet the mountains paled in comparison to what lay in the other direction.

  A vast fortress city rose grey and menacing out of the bare plains. At the center stood seven towers in a circle, the likes of which she’d never seen before.

  Seven towers. Her pulse raced, the significance of that number in this place not lost on her. Seven gods.

  Abandoning the stream, Lydia limped toward the city, grimacing as her foot sank into a soggy patch of earth. The smell of rot rose to assault her nose, and she jerked her foot free, wiping the black sludge off on the dry grass. Peering at the ground, she noticed the rotten earth ran like a stream toward the city, narrowing before fading into nothing. And it wasn’t the only stretch of it. There were others, reaching out like fingers toward the grey walls, the smell worse than that of a midden heap.

  Giving her foot another wipe, she resumed her approach. The city was eerily quiet, and at first she thought it was empty, the ghost of a bygone era. But at the gate, the shadows shifted, and a soldier stepped away from the arch. His breastplate shone in the fading light, yet as she drew close to overcome her myopia she saw he was old and stooped. A strange sentry for such a vast city.

  “Stop where you are, miss.”

  Trader’s Tongue. Her heart skipped.

  Two more old men stepped out, both of them extracting swords, which they leveled at her.

  “Need to pass inspection, miss,” the first guard said. He tossed a torch in her direction. “Pick it up so we can see your eyes.”

  Hands shaking, Lydia reached down and picked up the torch, holding it up so that her face was illuminated. The old man frowned, appr
oaching slowly with his weapon in hand. When he was close enough that she could smell the foulness of his breath, he finally gave a grunt and nodded. “Get yourself inside, miss. Night is nearly upon us.”

  Handing back the torch, Lydia passed through the thick walls, the flapping of banners that featured a striking scorpion the only sound.

  Inside, the wide cobbled street ran straight toward the center of the city and its looming towers. Grey stone buildings rose on either side, but their windows were boarded over, wind that smelled of the sea tugging at the planks. A pair of cloaked women scuttled through the shadows, but before Lydia could say anything to them they entered a house and slammed the heavy door shut behind them. The sound of several bolts falling into place suggested that knocking would be futile.

  Ignoring her aching body, Lydia increased her pace, searching the empty streets for an open door. For someone to acknowledge her. For some clue that would explain this strange city. But other than an intoxicated man missing a leg, who was meandering in circles around a fountain, she saw no one.

  “Excuse me,” she called to the man, but he only snarled at the sky, “Fifteen years I fought and this is how you repay me?” He swung his crutch at the base of the fountain. “Curse the King! And curse the Six!”

  Wary of his temper, Lydia took a step toward the crippled man, then yelped as the ground disappeared from under her foot, her elbows rapping against the metal frame of a sewer grate as she fell. Pain lanced through her ankle, and she sat back gingerly, trying to pull her leg free of the bars.

  It was stuck.

  “Blast,” Lydia muttered, tugging harder, but her ankle was already swelling. Shifting, she tried to pull it up in a different spot and from different angles, but it was useless. She needed help.

  “Excuse me,” she called again to the man, but he didn’t seem to hear her, his crutch tapping against the cobbles as he circled the fountain again. “Could you help?” she called a little louder, squinting in an attempt to see him better.

  His head slowly tracked in her direction, eventually landing on her. “’S after dark, miss. You shouldn’t be out of doors. Ain’t safe with…” Then he trailed off and fell backward to land with a splash in the fountain, his crutch landing a few paces away.