“Do you think this city would be filled to bursting with people if walking south was an option? The deimos aren’t the limit of what crossed the wall. Every town and village between here and Abenharrow has been massacred and anyone caught outside after dark with less than a fully armed escort suffers the same. Only a good rider on a fast horse has even a chance of making it, and given only a dozen—”
Before he could finish, the door to the room swung open and Bercola stepped inside, bending her head low so she wouldn’t hit the frame. “They’ve left. If you’re going to take her to the temple, now’s the time to do it.”
She glanced curiously at Lydia and then tossed a folded dress in her direction. Lydia let it drop to the floor, both hands occupied with keeping the blanket wrapped around her naked body. In the light of day, she was able to get a better look at the woman. A good foot taller than Killian, Bercola’s head was shaved to her ruddy scalp, but her eyebrows suggested her hair would be white if allowed to grow. Her eyes were devoid of color, only black pupils in seas of white, and Lydia found she had a hard time meeting the woman’s gaze.
“Get dressed,” Killian said; then he followed the giantess out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Lydia snatched up the woolen dress and pulled it over her head before tiptoeing across the floor to press an ear against the door.
“… says she’s from some place called Celendor.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Neither have I, but that isn’t the interesting part. She says she was marked last night to save my life.”
The giantess whistled. “She isn’t inked, but that’s still a bold claim. You don’t believe her, do you? She’s too old to receive a mark. Hegeria takes them young.”
“Of course I don’t believe her. She’s desperate to avoid conscription, is all. Healing me was likely an accident—that mark has a mind of its own.”
The giantess was quiet for a minute. “It’s not impossible. You are marked yourself, and the gods do ask favors of each other—”
“Why would Tremon incur a debt on my behalf? He gave me every skill I needed to keep this kingdom safe, and yet here we are.” Killian’s voice was bitter. “The gods don’t give second chances. The girl’s a liar.”
Bercola’s sigh was audible through the door. “Even if she’s telling the truth, we need to turn her over to the temple and Grand Master Quindor. The last thing you need is to be caught harboring a rogue healer.”
The floor creaked, and Lydia could all but see Killian pacing up and down the hall.
“You don’t have a choice,” Bercola said. “The King is desperate for her kind. And you know he’s looking for any excuse to have you executed.”
The wall shook with the sound of a fist slamming against plaster.
“You think I don’t know that?” Killian’s voice was dark. “But turning her in is worse than cutting her throat myself. The healers are all that’s keeping the army on its feet, and they’re dropping like flies. Serrick isn’t even sending their bodies back for proper rites anymore; he’s burning them with the rest of the corpses. Quindor won’t take the time to train her—he’ll send her straightaway, and she won’t last a month.”
Lydia didn’t hear how Bercola responded. Staggering back from the door, she sat on the bed, her body numb.
The moment she’d been trying hardest to forget—when her fingers had touched Killian and all the years of her life had drained away to bolster his. The slow march toward death accelerated. If she was sent to the battlefield, it would be the same thing, but over and over again. She’d rather die permanently than be subjected to that sort of torture, and it seemed no amount of guilt was going to keep Killian from turning her in. She had to escape.
Silently, Lydia propped the chair under the door handle. Going to the window, she unlatched it and swung the glass outwards. The room was on the second story above a narrow alley, and the ground below was terrifyingly far away. But not as terrifying as what she’d face if she stayed.
Shoving the crusts of bread and scraps of gristle from Killian’s plate into her pocket, she tied the edge of the blanket to the bed frame and dangled the end out the window. It came nowhere near the ground, but it might get her close enough that she wouldn’t break an ankle in the fall. Standing on the bed, she eased herself onto the frame. One hand on the sill and the other gripping the fabric, she lowered herself until she was dangling in the air.
The door handle rattled. “Gods-damn it, girl!”
Heart pounding, Lydia let go of the frame and slid down the blanket, hands burning from the friction. Then the knot holding the blanket to the bed gave way and she was falling.
Her heels slammed against the ground and she toppled onto her bottom, spine shuddering. Wood cracked and splintered, and a second later Killian was looking down at her.
“I’m not a liar!” she shouted at him.
Inexplicably, his face blanched, but then he disappeared back into the room, boot steps thundering against the wooden floor, clearly intent on chasing her down.
Leaping to her feet, Lydia bolted down the alley and out onto the street. It was crowded, and she resisted the urge to push—that would only draw more attention. Turning into another alley, she broke into a sprint, dodging stacked baskets and crates, feet sliding in the slick refuse. She ran through the twisting route, pausing only when crossing a roadway where she would walk sedately and then pick up speed when she was once again out of sight. She ran until she couldn’t breathe; then she collapsed onto an overturned crate, chest heaving, listening for sounds of pursuit. But there was only the hum of people going about their business.
Leaning against the cool stone of a building, Lydia took a deep breath, watching as the fresh abrasions on her feet sealed over, fading from red to pink to white until the only signs they’d been there at all were the still-drying smears of blood. It made her skin crawl, and she turned her face to the sky, trying to maintain control of the panic bubbling up in her veins.
Focus.
Lodging had to be her first priority—after last night, Lydia had no interest in being on the streets when darkness fell. Except that required coin and she had none. Extracting a crust of toast from her pocket, she nibbled on it while considering her options. She could try to steal, but given her nonexistent pickpocketing experience, that was unlikely to go well. With her luck, she’d end up in prison.
“Or you could open your eyes, you idiot,” she said aloud, the solution to her problem glittering in the black diamond on one of her fingers. The ring had been a gift from her father when she’d turned fifteen. It was deeply precious to her, especially now that it was the last link she had to him. Her father who might well already be dead from Vibius’s poison.
The thought stole the breath from her chest, especially knowing that he would’ve died believing she’d fled. Parting with the ring would hurt, but he’d want her to do it. Especially if it meant getting herself home to help those she’d left behind.
“I’m coming, Teriana,” she muttered. “Don’t give up yet.”
21
KILLIAN
Killian shouldered past Bercola, sprinting to the staircase. He grabbed hold of the twin newel-posts, but rather than launching himself downwards, he rested his weight on his arms, letting his legs swing back and forth as he reconsidered the chase. Making a decision, he lowered his feet onto the top step.
“What in the fiery depths of the underworld do you think you’re doing?” Bercola demanded from behind him.
“Did any of the girls see her last night?” Killian asked, ignoring Bercola’s question even as he pondered whether the guards at the gate had gotten a good look at her. Too dark, he decided. Never mind that half of them had cataracts.
“No, so if you don’t catch her now, she’s lost.” Bercola gave him a shove, nearly sending him tumbling down the stairs.
“Better lost than found,” he said, recovering his balance.
“You’re a block-brained idiot!�
�� Bercola’s face was purpling. “There is no way we can keep this quiet. I haven’t any doubt that half the city already knows about your late-night adventure and the mystery healer who saved your life. Quindor is going to find out, and he will hold you accountable for letting her go.”
“I didn’t let her go—she escaped. I chased her as far as I could, but unfortunately, the side effects of last night’s … adventures kept me from catching her.” He pressed a hand to his chest and grinned. “I feel quite winded. Perhaps I should sit down.”
Bercola’s face tightened and she crossed her thick arms. “So you’re going to just let her go? No matter the consequences?”
“I’m going to let her go for now. It isn’t as though she’ll get far.”
“Why let her go at all?”
He shrugged. “You know I’m a sucker for a pretty face, Bercola.” Then he waved a hand at her. “Head to the palace. Tell Malahi I’ll be there shortly.”
The giantess gave an exasperated shake of her head but departed without argument, leaving Killian standing at the top of the stairs.
It was true, the girl had been strikingly beautiful, but that was only a convenient excuse. It was what she had said that was making him hesitate.
I’m not a liar.
The words were a haunting echo of what the corrupted woman at the wall had said just before his men shot her down. That damnable moment when he’d ignored his instincts in favor of the King’s laws. He didn’t intend to make the same mistake again.
Who are you?
Celendor, that had been where Lydia had said she was from. A name that didn’t ring any bells of recognition in him, despite the fact that he’d been north and south, east and west, across the entire kingdom and beyond. She had the look of the North about her, but her unusual accent said otherwise, and even that he couldn’t place.
No healers marked in over a year.
And yet Lydia had been, or at least claimed to have been, which would mean that Hegeria had returned to the mortal plane after a year’s absence to mark this girl so that she might save his life. And if that was true …
You need to get back to the palace.
Malahi is waiting for you.
You’re shirking your duties.
Killian ignored all the thoughts spinning through his head, instead striding down the hallway to his study, bypassing his sleeping dog and the shelves of books on his way to a cabinet. Inside were dozens of maps, which he extracted, laying them flat on the table. For the next hour, he scanned through them, searching for the name. Nothing.
Sitting back in his chair, Killian unrolled an enormous map that showed all the known world. The Northern and Southern Continents, plus all the islands, big and small. Derin was a blank space, as were the Uncharted Lands in the center of the Southern Continent, but otherwise, this was the sum of the world.
It was possible, he supposed, that she was a Derin spy, but nothing about that felt right. She was too unprepared and the deimos had been just as keen to kill her. Never mind that it seemed unlikely that Hegeria would be marking a girl who paid tribute to the Seventh. Frowning at the map, Killian idly traced a finger over the angry-looking sea serpent in the corner, the symbol of the Maarin people. The map had been a gift to his father from Triumvir Tesya of the Quincense years ago. One from her personal collection, he recalled her daughter Teriana telling him, though they’d filched a bottle of rum, so his memory of the conversation was blurry.
As soon as I can find a Maarin ship …
The Maarin don’t take passengers—
They’ll take me.
What was Lydia’s connection to the Maarin? Obviously they knew where this Celendor was, which meant it was likely coastal, as the Maarin were never off the water for long. Perhaps an island in the middle of nowhere?
An island with a xenthier stem that terminated right outside Mudaire’s gates.
He grimaced at that. It was common practice to encase known stems in tombs of stone, and a morbid part of him had always wondered how many corpses would be found if the tombs of the terminuses were ever opened.
Most of his questions could easily be answered if any Maarin ships were in the harbor, but they were both too wise and too gods-damned wealthy to be incented to risk their ships and crew to Mudaire’s dark skies. Huffing out a breath at the time wasted, Killian rolled up the map, only to pause as his eyes landed on the edges of the paper. Three sides were worn with much handling, but one … one was sliced smooth, as though freshly cut.
Half a map.
The thought settled on his mind, but then he brushed it away. There was nothing but ocean, or so said the Maarin. And no ship that had ventured east or west into the Endless Seas had ever returned to contradict them.
Leaving the map spread out on the table, Killian pulled on his coat and pocketed an assortment of weapons before heading out into the cool morning air. He strode through the streets and made his way to the west gate. There was a convoy passing slowly through, the wagons laden with supplies for the Royal Army from whatever ships had arrived at dawn, only that which could not be transported left for purchase at the harbor market. The crowds of civilians on the streets eyed the wagons hungrily, but the fifty armed soldiers flanking them were enough deterrence to hold them back.
Recognizing one of the men, Killian fell into step next to him, the soldier inclining his head. “Lord Calorian.”
“News?”
“Time it takes to run supplies gets shorter with every passing week.” The soldier shook his head. “The Seventh must have spies in our camp, for the Derin army predicts His Majesty’s every strategy, and with every skirmish we lose men by the hundreds.”
“Morale?”
“Bad. The corrupted pick off our scouts and leave their corpses staked out for us to find at dawn. Deimos overhead all night with their cursed racket make it near impossible to sleep, and a man can’t step outside of camp to take a shit for fear of the packs of creatures that roam the dark.”
“Have you ever seen them?”
The soldier shook his head. “Just their eyes. And their leavings.”
Serrick needed to commit to a battle while he still had the numbers to win it, but Killian knew from the messages Malahi received that the King still believed he could whittle down the Derin army’s numbers through skirmishes and hunger, confident that the Royal Army’s healers and tenders would keep it from suffering the same. Yet the enemy remained inexplicably well supplied and it was Rufina who came out ahead in every skirmish.
“Despite what happened at the wall, it would be well for morale if you or High Lady Falorn rode with us.” The man pulled off his helmet to wipe sweat from his brow. “If there was ever a time we needed the strength of the Six, it is now.”
They’d reached the gate, and instead of answering, Killian thumped the soldier on his shoulder. “May the Six guide your steps.”
“And yours, my lord.”
Stopping next to one of guards who’d been at the gate the prior night, Killian said, “Finally rustled up the nerve to open them, did you?”
The old soldiers turned, eyes widening at the sight of him. “My lord,” one of them blurted out. “You’re alive!”
“No thanks to you sorry cowards.” He waved aside their stammered explanations of rules and protocol. “That’s not why I’m here. The woman that was with me, had you seen her before?”
“Not an hour prior to the deimos attack, my lord,” one answered. He was old enough to be Killian’s grandfather, his nose red and bulbous, suggesting a lifetime of drowning himself in drink. “Came through the gate soaking wet and barefoot, wearing something fit for a lady’s bedroom, not walking the countryside.”
“Spend much time in ladies’ bedrooms, soldier?”
The man’s cheeks flushed. “Not in recent years, my lord.”
“Which way did she come from?”
Pointing across the barren fields laced with blight, the man said, “From the trees. Wasn’t another cursed thing moving
out there, so we caught sight of her straightaway.”
“Checked her eyes like we do everyone,” another chimed in. “She wasn’t corrupted.”
The idea of these men doing much of anything if they did cross paths with one of the corrupted was laughable, but Killian only nodded at them before starting down the road, the mud from previous rains already drying into ruts. His eyes drifted over the ground, catching sight of a footprint in the drying earth, the size and shape matching the girl’s.
Stepping off the road, he tracked her back toward the trees, noting a spot where she’d stepped in the blight and attempted to wipe the slime off on the dead grass. The fetid stench of rotten eggs was thick on the air. His boots made soft crunches in the dead grass with each step as he approached the copse of pines, many of them diseased, their needles browning. The branches should’ve been full of birdsong, the undergrowth rustling with rabbits and squirrels, but the only sound was the whistle of the wind and, in the distance, the gurgle of water.
Killian’s skin prickled and he extracted a knife, following Lydia’s trail until he reached the banks of the stream, where he paused. The mud was marked with footprints and handprints from her clambering up the slight incline, but there were no similar markings on the opposite bank. Frowning, he followed the water upstream to the rocky outcropping where it originated. Circling the hill, he searched for her trail, for any clue as to where she’d come from, but there was nothing. It was as though she’d sprung from the water itself.
Perched on top of the outcropping, Killian stared at the turbulent flow of water, knowing he needed to get back to Malahi, but something kept his feet frozen in place. Then he caught sight of the glitter of metal beneath the surface of the water.
One jump had him back down on the bank, and there he pulled off his boots and coat, along with his shirt, and waded out into the water. He had been vaguely aware that this stream was warm, but this close to the source it was the temperature of bathwater, with a surprisingly intense current. Picking his way out to where he’d seen the glint of metal, Killian stuck his knife between his teeth, squinting against the spray as he reached down between two rocks.
Dark Skies Page 16
