“Too cold for your summer blood, Sonia,” Gwen said. “You’d freeze solid.”
Sonia ignored the comment. “Even in Gamdesh, the High Lady is a legend. Have you met her?”
High Lady Dareena Falorn. Lydia remembered the woman from Treatise of the Seven. Not only was she marked by the same god as Killian; she was also the former King of Mudamora’s younger sister. She governed over the north of the kingdom, and the book detailed an incident where she’d held back the enemy nation of Gendorn almost singlehandedly by holding a narrow pass until reinforcements arrived. Because it seemed a safe answer, Lydia said, “I’ve only seen her from a distance.”
“Ahh.” Sonia rubbed her chin thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Perhaps one day I’ll have the good fortune. I hear she is as beautiful as she is fierce.”
“Quit fantasizing about northern girls and go get some sleep,” Gwen said, nudging Sonia with her elbow. “I’ll show Lydia around.”
Scooping the last scrap of food into her mouth, Lydia followed the other girl around the house, which was two levels and square, the middle boasting a large courtyard with a well at its center. There was a rack of dulled practice weapons and several straw dummies that someone had painted frowning faces on.
“Bit quiet today,” Gwen said, drawing up a bucket of water from the well. “There were lots of comings and goings scheduled at the palace, so some of the night girls stayed on for that and they’ll likely nap in the palace barracks rather than coming back here.”
“If the palace has barracks, why do you live here?” Lydia asked, following her into a small chamber with a large copper tub and a smoking stove.
“I suppose a northern girl like you is used to female soldiers, especially given your High Lady is the most famous living warrior in the kingdom,” Gwen answered. “It’s not such a common thing here, and less so the farther south you go.”
“Ah.” Lydia frowned, her question not precisely answered. “Are you not allowed in the palace barracks, then?”
“We are. That’s where we started, but we had some trouble with the men misunderstanding our presence, and the healers got tired of fixing their broken hands.” Gwen laughed, the sound echoing through the room as she poured the water into a large kettle, which she set over the flames in the stove. “The Princess was of a mind to evict the men, but the captain had other plans.”
“Oh?”
“Some sort of nonsense about us needing time away. That if we stayed at the palace, we’d always be on duty.” Gwen shrugged. “I reckon it would be worth it given the inconvenience of traipsing back and forth across the damned city twice a day, but I suppose he knows of what he speaks.”
“He stays there, then?”
“Mostly. And he’s her sworn sword, so don’t be getting any ideas about distracting him.”
Lydia’s cheeks burned hot. “I have no interest in—”
“Didn’t say you did.” Gwen gestured for Lydia to follow her back out into the courtyard, where she retrieved another bucket of water. “I’m only saying, don’t find yourself discovering an interest. We have rules, and that’s one of them. Start making eyes and you’ll be dealing with Bercola, and she’s got a heavy hand with the strap. Or so I’ve been told. Got no interest in men, myself.”
“It won’t be an issue.”
“Excellent. Now why don’t you set to filling up that tub while the water heats, and I’ll get you some clothes. You aren’t to be wearing your uniform when you’re off duty, but it will do while you launder that dress.”
Though Lydia had never done an ounce of labor in her life, there was something soothing about the methodical process of drawing up water and filling the tub. The water in the kettle boiled, and she used a folded towel to lift it off the fire, pouring it into the tub and then filling it up again. After stripping off her filthy dress, Lydia soaped it in a bucket, then rinsed it as best she could, though it would take further scrubbing to rid the fabric of the stains of her ordeal.
She poured the heated water into the tub, shivering as her spectacles went foggy with steam. Setting them aside, she picked up a bar of soap that smelled faintly of flowers, then stepped into the tub. The warm water reached up to her knees, and she settled into its depths. The chamber was dark and windowless, the only light the faint glow of the stove next to her. Steam rose from the water, filling the air, but rather than soothing her, it felt stifling. Suffocating.
“It’s a just a tub, you idiot,” she whispered. “Get clean. Get out.”
Her hair was a tangled mess and needed to be washed, so she closed her eyes and slid down, dunking her head. But the moment the water closed over her, a snarling golden dragon appeared before her eyes, Lucius’s laughter echoing in her ears.
I can’t breathe!
Lunging up, Lydia gasped and spluttered, clinging to the edge of the tub. “It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.”
The words did nothing to steady her racing heart.
Retrieving the soap, she washed her skin with shaking hands, digging grime out from under her nails. The wood in the stove snapped and popped as the fire consumed it, each sound causing Lydia to twitch like a skittish horse. Every time she blinked, she saw the baths in Celendrial. The sconces on the wall. That damned table with its decanter of Atlian wine.
Her breath came in ragged little gasps, her hands shaking as she rubbed the soap in her hair, building a lather. Get out, instinct told her even as logic reasoned that she was being ridiculous.
“Lucius is on the far side of the world,” she muttered. “And so is Marcus. They can’t touch you. And when you do get back, it will be them who pay. You’ll make them pay. You’ll save your father and Teriana, and all of this will be over.”
A bang sounded behind her, and Lydia screamed, spinning in the tub, certain she’d see Lucius. Certain she’d see the legatus, eyes full of resignation, reaching for her throat.
But it was only Gwen, her eyes wide, arms full of clothing. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I knocked, but you didn’t answer.”
“It’s fine.” Lydia could barely get the words out, her breath coming in great heaving gasps.
Setting the clothing down on a stool and a pair of boots on the floor, the other girl walked to the door to the courtyard and opened it, the steam rushing out even as cold air rushed in. “Sorry, I know better than to startle a girl in her bath. It’s my fault. But try to breathe.”
Lydia couldn’t find the air in her lungs to answer, her chest so tight it hurt, her body shivering despite being immersed in warm water.
Gwen crouched next to the tub, resting her hand overtop Lydia’s. It was warm. Comforting. A choking sob tore from Lydia’s chest, tears flooding down her face, and then the other girl had her arms around her. Holding her tight.
“It’s all right,” she said. “You’re safe here, understand?”
“Nowhere is safe.”
Gwen chuckled soundlessly, but Lydia felt it against her cheek. “Maybe not. But here you’re as safe as you can be. You see, we don’t just guard Malahi’s back; we guard each other’s. What you’ve joined here is a sisterhood who protect their own. You’re not alone.”
Fresh tears flowed down Lydia’s face, but the aching pain in her chest eased. When her breathing steadied, Gwen reached down for a bucket of water, which she warmed with some from the kettle, saying nothing as she rinsed the soap from Lydia’s hair, then picked up a comb and went to work on the tangles.
A sisterhood. Part of her yearned to belong to such a thing, to be surrounded by girls who were her friends in truth, not spies set to achieve the ends of men. There was a strange sort of autonomy in that, something she might never have appreciated if fate hadn’t put her in this place.
This time you are the liar, she reminded herself. Nothing Gwen or the other girls thought about her was true. Not who she was, where she came from, or even the skills that she possessed.
Yet as she rose from the tub, Gwen handing her a piece of toweling, Lydia found her
heart aching to be friends with these girls in truth.
29
KILLIAN
Killian hadn’t believed the day could possibly get worse.
He’d been wrong.
Grand Master Quindor was waiting for Malahi when she and Killian had finally made it back through the palace gates, both of them sodden from washing the horse off in the warm waters of the spring and dusk heavy in the sky.
“Take him to the council chambers,” Malahi told the servant who met them at the palace entrance, the woman giving her mistress a wide-eyed once-over of her ruined guardswoman ensemble. “Tell him that I’ll be there in a few moments.”
Now, freshly attired, she and Killian strode through the palace corridors, flanked by her bodyguards. “Do you know what this is about?” he asked under his breath.
Malahi only shook her head, waiting for Sonia to announce her before stepping into the council chambers.
“I hate to think,” Quindor said, turning from his appraisal of the table, “what your father would say if he learned you were gallivanting about the countryside in these troubled times, Your Highness.”
“I wished to see the spread of the blight, Grand Master.” Malahi circled the large table, taking her father’s seat, the scorpion of House Rowenes glittering above her head. “It was easier for me to do so in disguise.”
“Surely others could’ve been sent to assess the problem.” Quindor seemed to briefly consider sitting in one of the High Lord’s chairs, then clearly thought better of it, choosing instead to hover near the table. Killian sat between them in his brother’s chair, not caring whether it was his place to do so or not.
“My kingdom,” Malahi said, resting her elbows on the arms of her chair. “My problem.”
Quindor inclined his head. “I didn’t realize that you’d taken such an interest in rule, my lady. Perhaps you might address the state of the crown shelters. They’ve become quite the source of illness.”
“Better than a night with the deimos.”
“It’s just a slower way to die, my lady. We haven’t the resources to treat them all.”
Malahi’s jaw flexed. “I’ll address the issue. But I don’t think that is the reason for this visit, so perhaps you might get to it. I’ve had a trying day.”
“Of course, my lady. It’s a matter of finances.”
Malahi huffed out a breath. “Why am I not surprised? What do you need the gold for?”
“As you know, Highness, the Marked are typically brought to Mudaire for their training,” Quindor said. “Due to the city’s current predicament, we’ve chosen to keep them in Serlania until they are ready to join the King’s army. But the cost of passage has become … prohibitive.”
“What else? You know full well the Crown will bear that expense.”
The Grand Master hesitated, and Killian knew that whatever subject he intended to broach would not be well received.
“Well?” There was an edge to Malahi’s voice that suggested she was of the same mind-set.
“There is a matter of the cost of procurement.”
Silence.
“The temple bears the cost of compensating families,” Malahi said. “It’s not a crown expense.”
“Desperate times make the people less generous, Highness. The coffers grow thin.”
“We’re at war, Grand Master. Everyone’s coffers are thin.”
“Indeed.” Quindor sighed. “However, what I’m referring to is the external sourcing of marked healers.”
Malahi shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re speaking of.”
“Your father asked me to make arrangements to procure Marked from other kingdoms, and agreed to fund the cost.”
“What do you mean, procure?” The Princess’s voice was acidic.
Quindor was silent, but Killian knew. And it took every ounce of control he possessed to keep his mouth shut.
“Explain yourself.”
“We’ve had a long-standing agreement with King Urcon of Arinoquia,” the healer said.
“Arinoquia has no king,” Malahi interrupted. “Urcon is a clan lord, and a corrupt one at that.”
“Even so”—Quindor’s tone was delicate—“he’s been facilitating arrangements in which Arinoquian families are compensated for allowing their marked children to come to Mudamora for training.”
Spots of color appeared on Malahi’s cheeks. “You mean Urcon’s been selling marked children. And you’ve been purchasing them!”
“Highness, you twist my words.”
“I don’t think I do.” Malahi was on her feet. “You’re talking about buying children. About slavery. And if you think I’m going to provide the funds for such a venture, you are sorely mistaken.”
“Highness, the King approved the transactions. You are in no position to flaunt his—”
“My father won’t be king forever,” she said. “And he isn’t here. If I hear even a whisper that you’ve flaunted my orders in this, I’ll have you kneeling before the headsman, and whatever punishment the Crown might visit upon me won’t be enough to reattach your head.”
Quindor blanched. “That’s sacrilege.”
“Maybe,” spit Malahi. “But so is what you’re doing.”
She turned to walk out, and Quindor reached for her, quick as a viper.
Killian was faster. He knocked the slender man back. “Don’t give me a reason, Quindor.”
“Fools! Don’t you see that there is no other choice? Without healers, Mudamora will lose this war. The Seventh will triumph.”
“And you think he does not triumph when we engage in such behavior?” the Princess demanded.
“They’ve been marked for this fate—to withhold them from it would be blasphemy.”
“I’m not listening to this.” Malahi stormed out of the room.
Killian moved to follow, but Quindor caught his wrist, his grip painfully tight. “Hegeria marked them for a reason. It is the will of the gods that they use their gift to serve. To do otherwise would be courting the Seventh.”
Killian met his gaze, horrified and fascinated by the fanaticism within them. The King believed that it was Mudamora’s lack of faith that had brought this war upon them. And maybe he was right. But Killian couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t Quindor’s sort of faith that would allow the Corrupter to win.
30
LYDIA
It was an evening unlike any Lydia had ever had.
The group of girls responsible for protecting Malahi during the daylight hours had returned just before dusk, all of them chattering about Killian sneaking the Princess out wearing a guard’s uniform as disguise.
“They both came back as foul as thunderclouds on a sunny day,” the girl whose uniform it had been, said. “So I expect things didn’t go quite as intended. Also, they were both filthy and soaking wet. Hence my attire.” She gestured at the servant’s livery she wore in lieu of a uniform.
“Probably because he didn’t give her that ring,” one of the other girls said. “My gods. Two thousand gold coins for a trinket…”
Shrugging, the girl approached Lydia and Gwen. Lydia recognized her from the night of the deimos attack, although she hadn’t appreciated then how pretty the other girl was with her copper-colored hair and rosy cheeks.
Rising on her toes, she kissed Gwen on the lips, long and deep enough that Lydia felt her face warm. “How are you feeling, my love?”
“As well as if Grand Master Quindor himself had made a house call.”
It was a struggle for Lydia to keep from wincing. The first thing she needed to purchase with her wages was a good pair of gloves, or she’d be healing people inadvertently every which way she went.
“Good.” Rocking back on her heels, the copper-haired girl smirked. “You would not believe the day I’ve had. I’m so stuffed full of fresh fruit, I’m not even going to eat dinner.”
“Is that why you smell like you rolled out of the door of a cathouse?”
“It is.” The girl lin
ked arms with Gwen and then, to Lydia’s surprise, with her, leading them both toward the dining room. “I understand you’re our new recruit, Lydia. My name’s Lena.”
“As of this morning.” Lydia bit the insides of her cheeks, waiting for the inevitable questions. “Finn—”
“—delivers the best girls,” Lena finished for her. “Would you like to hear a story?”
She regaled the dozen girls with the tale of her four hours of pretending to be a princess, the whole group howling with laughter as she described trying on gowns and jewelry and perfume, all while eating every last thing there was to be found.
“She’s going to notice you were digging about in her things,” one of the other girls said. “You’re going to be lucky if you aren’t sacked.”
Lena made a rude noise. “I was careful to put everything back as it was, and she’s used to servants moving things about. Besides, I’m her favorite.”
“Sonia’s her favorite,” Gwen said. “Everyone knows that.”
Lena rolled her eyes. “Sonia’s not nearly as fun as I am.”
The loud shriek of a deimos shattered the conversation, and everyone went still, listening to the steady drum of wings as the creature circled overhead. A chill ran through Lydia, and she shivered.
“Sad as it is to say, there are easier pickings than us,” Gwen murmured, patting her arm. “There’s the dead littering the street, plus the sad souls who couldn’t find shelter for the night.”
“The nights are getting longer,” one of the other girls said, jerking her chin toward the clock sitting on the sideboard. “Winter will be a fell thing.”
The dining room filled with uneasy murmurs, and Lydia didn’t blame them. She recalled the map of the West that Killian had shown her. Mudaire was far enough north that the winter nights would be long indeed.
“How fortunate that we shall all be in the lands of endless summer soon enough,” Gwen said, silencing the chatter. “No cold. No deimos. And all the food you can eat.”
“And southern boys!” shouted several of the girls.
Dark Skies Page 23
