Dark Skies

by Danielle L. Jensen

  “What is the meaning of this?” Malahi demanded. “Have you two forgotten what the word private means?”

  Shaking Gwen off her arm, Lena straightened. “Respectfully, Your Grace, I can’t stay silent. He needs to know what you’ve done.”

  Malahi blanched, and Killian’s skin crawled with apprehension. “What’s she talking about, Malahi?”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  It wasn’t nothing. Even if Malahi didn’t look ready to vomit on his boots, he would’ve known it wasn’t nothing.

  “I know I’m fired or worse for this,” Lena said. “But what you did to Lydia wasn’t right.”

  Lydia. Killian’s pulse roared and it was all he could do not to grab Malahi by the shoulders and shake her. “Did you hurt her?”

  “No! I—” She broke off, her chin trembling.

  “Either you tell him or I do, Your Grace,” Lena said. “Your choice.”

  Malahi closed her eyes for a long moment, then nodded. “Get out. I don’t need you listening in.”

  “Where is Lydia?” Killian demanded, not noticing or caring if Lena complied. “What have you done to her?”

  Silence.

  “I didn’t think Dareena would vote for me,” she finally answered. “I thought killing my father was the only way to take the crown away from him. I … I discovered that Lydia was a healer, and I used the information to convince her to help me.”

  It was the worst sort of betrayal. Even if Killian hadn’t been truthful about Lydia’s identity, she’d still risked her life to protect Malahi’s. “You mean you threatened her until she agreed to be your assassin?”

  “Yes.”

  Killian stepped back, needing distance from her. Not knowing how he could ever stand to be close to her again. “You’re telling me that she’s with the Royal Army planning to kill the King?”

  “Yes, but she’s supposed to have done it already. Something’s gone wrong.”

  Lydia—Lydia who could barely manage to swing a sword without tripping over her own feet—was going to attempt to murder the most important man in the kingdom. A thousand things could’ve gone wrong.

  “I’m sorry.” Malahi reached for him, but he batted her hands away. “Please understand that I only did it to save our people.”

  “Why her?” he demanded. “You could’ve chosen anyone. Or is this all jealousy? All a result of you falling for my brother’s manipulations rather than asking me for the truth?”

  “Would you have given it?”

  No.

  She gave a slow shake of her head. “It doesn’t matter. This isn’t jealousy. I know she’s the healer who saved your life and that you were helping her out of obligation.”

  If only that was the entire truth.

  “Then why her?”

  “You don’t know her as well as you seem to think you do, Killian.”

  “I know she’s innocent. I know she doesn’t deserve this!”

  “She’s not innocent!” Malahi shouted the words in his face before checking herself. “If you knew the truth about her, you might not be so quick to defend her!”

  He stared at his queen. “You more than anyone should understand why she’d be trying to evade Quindor’s net.”

  “That’s the least of it.” Malahi’s hands balled into fists. “She’s corrupted.”

  “Bullshit!” he snarled. “I’ve seen her heal dozens of people with my own eyes.”

  “And I saw her almost kill one with her bare hands. The corrupted you beheaded in the tunnels? He tried to take her life and she took it back. And more. She can do what they do.”

  His mind raced back to that moment. Of running through the tunnels. Of seeing the corrupted kneeling above Lydia, her eyes wide in what he’d believed was fear. But had it been something else? “It was dark. You were seeing things.”

  “Not that dark.”

  “It doesn’t make her corrupted. She was desperate.”

  Except it did. That was exactly what it meant.

  There was pity in Malahi’s eyes. “I sent her to kill my father with her touch so that everyone would believe he was assassinated by Rufina. He’d be a martyr and there would be no chance the Royal Army wouldn’t want to take their revenge. I sent her because she was a life I was willing to sacrifice. If she succeeds, thousands will be saved.”

  And potentially thousands more lost. Teriana. Her crew. All the Maarin in captivity in the Celendor Empire. And gods, but he was certain the stakes were even higher than that. “She’s more important than you know. What you’ve done…” Words failed him.

  She reached for him again. “She’s one life, Killian. And a tainted one at that.”

  “She’s not just one life,” he screamed. “Not to those who are counting on her. And not to me. I’m not allowing her to throw her life away.”

  Malahi’s face hardened. “You’re sworn to protect me, Killian Calorian. Not her. You swore to stay by my side.”

  The worst decision of his life. It would’ve been better to have let the executioner take his head, because then Lydia would never have met him. Would never have been marked. Would probably be on her way back to Celendor already instead of risking her life, her soul, because of Malahi’s threats.

  You swore an oath.

  “Fine,” he hissed. “Make me stay with you, Malahi. Make me marry you. And I will be loyal to you and protect your neck for as long as I live, but know that I will hate you every waking minute of it. And that on my dying breath, I’ll curse your gods-damned soul to the underworld for this.”

  Malahi’s face blanched; then slowly, she took a step back. “If my father dies, I’ll be High Lady. I’ll have a vote and it won’t matter if Hacken retracts his. You wouldn’t need to marry me and I … I could release you from your oath.”

  He’d have his freedom back. But at what cost? Lydia not just a murderer, but corrupted. “I’ll suffer any amount of misery if it means sparing her from the fate you forced upon her.”

  “Misery.” She whispered the word.

  Neither of them spoke, but outside, shouts filled the air. The enemy was attacking again, but his mark was screaming that something else was wrong. That there was something he was missing. Then it struck him. “Where. Is. Bercola?”

  Malahi bit her bottom lip. “She’s on the other side of the Tarn behind the Derin lines. I couldn’t risk Lydia failing and my father arriving at the head of—” She broke off, clenching her teeth hard.

  Killian stared at her. Because it would’ve taken hours for Bercola to get into that position undetected. “Until an hour ago, we all believed the Royal Army was marching to Abenharrow. How is it that you had cause to believe otherwise?”

  “I…”

  “Lied.” The memory of the King’s message arriving flashed through Killian’s mind. Of Malahi being alone in her rooms when she received it. Of him being distracted by the infection of High Lord Torrington. Of the smeared ink on the tiny roll of paper, as though the message had been written in great haste.

  Written by her. “You forged a new message. You deceived everyone. You risked the lives of everyone.”

  “Can’t you see that I didn’t have a choice?” She clenched handfuls of her own hair, her face twisting. “Everything my father touches turns to rot. There is something wrong with him. I couldn’t risk him arriving and losing this battle like he’s lost every single one of them. So I did what the rest of you were too gods-damned afraid to do.”

  “And yet for all your plotting, here he is.” Killian gestured west. “And it’s too late for us to do anything about.”

  “It’s not too late. Bercola—”

  “No.” He started to the front of the tent. “I’m going, Malahi. And you’d best pray to all the gods that I can undo the damage that you’ve done.”

  “Go, then,” Malahi called after him, her voice bitter. “But know this, Killian. If you don’t come back to me victorious and I lose the crown, everything that ha
ppens will be because of you. Because of the decision you made in this moment. And any blood that is shed will be on your hands.”

  “Have a look at your own hands, Your Majesty,” Killian answered. “Because I assure you, they are far from clean.”

  * * *

  The camp was chaos as soldiers ran to their posts, shouts and screams filling the air as the Derin army assaulted the wall, Falorn archers picking them off by the hundreds. To try to go through the ford would be throwing himself into a deathtrap, which meant he needed to find another way across.

  Sonia was outside. “They’re trying to scale the cliffs. They’ve got lines across both north and south. The High Lady has sent archers to pick them off, but we’re spread too thin. Won’t be long until they have enough men across to flank us.”

  “That’s Dareena’s problem,” Killian said, motioning for the woman to follow him. “I need to get across.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “Quite possibly.” Leading her at a sprint, he tracked the lip of the ravine, keeping far enough back to avoid being shot by enemy archers. Derin soldiers climbed over the edge, some engaging with Mudamorians even as others secured lines their archers had shot across. The ravine was crisscrossed with ropes heavy with men, but Killian ignored them until he found a spot that suited his fancy.

  Cutting down the men guarding the secured line, he sheathed his sword in favor of a sturdy branch, which he placed over the taut rope. Gripping it firmly on both sides, he shouted, “Cover me!,” then jumped.

  The eastern bank was higher, and he slid down the rope with speed, using his feet to knock loose climbers coming across. He lost momentum in the middle, grabbing hold of the rope with one hand even as he grappled with another man, elbowing him in the face until he fell screaming into the river.

  Arrows whizzed past, one scoring a fiery line across his shoulder, another knocking against the heel of his boot as he slid toward the western bank.

  “Shoot him! Shoot him!” the Derin soldiers screamed, and sweat dripped down Killian’s brow as another arrow glanced off the hilt of his sword. “Shit!”

  “Killian, hold on tight,” he heard Sonia scream; then he was falling. His shoulders snapped and he swung toward the ravine wall, twisting to get his legs in place. The impact nearly jarred him loose. Dangling from one arm and breathing hard, he reached up to catch hold of the rope and then began to climb.

  “Cover him!”

  Arrows flew from Falorn bows, sinking into the enemy above. Reaching the top, Killian rolled over the edge and to his feet, sword in hand. He cut into the ranks of Derin soldiers, forcing his way past them and into the trees. The Derin army reeked of terror and desperation, black-clad corrupted driving them toward the ravine, killing those who attempted to flee.

  Vaulting onto a loose horse, he kicked the animal into a gallop until he was clear of the enemy lines. In the distance, the Royal Army was spread in a long line, rushing forward like a massive hammer intent on crushing the enemy against an anvil. Except it would be the anvil that shattered.

  He lay low across the neck of the horse, riding hard, searching for the striking scorpion of House Rowenes even as he combed the trees for any sign of Bercola, but there was no sign of either of them. And no sign of Lydia, either. Please be all right, he prayed. Please be alive.

  But it couldn’t be Lydia he focused on. His first priority needed to be to wrest control from Serrick and reroute the Royal Army before it was too late. This would be done right, or not at all.

  There.

  In the center ranks, a group of cavalry surrounded a man in gilded armor, his head bare but for the golden circlet on his brow. Serrick. And next to him rode … Lydia?

  But where the hell was Bercola?

  He looked backward, seeking her large form among the trees and chaos, only to be forced to pull up his mount as archers trained their weapons on him. “I’m Lord Killian Calorian,” he shouted. “I need to see the King.”

  Several of them lowered their weapons as they recognized him, but before he could proceed, motion in the tree line caught his attention. Turning his head, he saw a figure standing in the shadows of the trees, face obscured by a hood, a spear held in one hand.

  “No!” he shouted, but Bercola either didn’t hear him or chose not to listen.

  Killian dug his heels into the sides of his horse and plunged forward.

  65

  LYDIA

  The cavalry massed around Lydia shifted uneasily, the harsh tang of unwashed bodies rising to fill her nostrils as they pushed steadily toward the ravine containing both the river Tarn and most of the Derin forces.

  Without her spectacles and through the falling snow, she could make out little detail, only that on the far side of the ravine the sheer cliff was broken in one spot with a steep incline that led up to a wall made of wood and rocks. Beneath it, the slope churned with motion, and though she knew it was the Derin army trying to break through the wall, it looked for all the world to her like a swarm of insects climbing only to be knocked back.

  She rode at the King of Mudamora’s left, under strict orders from the moment she’d told him Malahi’s plans that she wasn’t to leave his side. Sweat drenched her skin and the horse beneath her pranced sideways, picking up on her anxiety.

  All her life, she’d been exposed to war. To strategies of deployment, the discussion of battles past and battles to come. Her ears had been filled with the costs of victories, the numbers of soldiers lost to death or injury tossed about as though they were nothing more than toys misplaced through careless play. The distance had made it palatable, but now she was about to see the reality.

  She was terrified.

  Horns sounded through the air from the opposite bank—signals, she guessed, though what they meant Lydia couldn’t begin to guess.

  High Lord Damashere wove through the lines toward her and the King, horse foaming at the bit as the man reined it in hard. “They’re signaling again for us to back down, Your Grace. Their wall and lines are at risk of breach.”

  “I’m not deaf, Damashere; I can hear the horns,” the King snapped, his breath forming clouds of mist in the cold air. “Ignore them. They are lies. All lies. Get back to your position.”

  Unease filled Lydia’s chest. Malahi might be a liar, but it would be Killian and his soldiers who were sending those signals. She opened her mouth to say as much, but before she could, the King’s healer, Cyntha, leaned in close.

  “Her Highness wants this victory for herself. She’ll risk the lives of everyone to ensure it. You must not let her have her way.”

  “But it’s not the Princess who is giving orders,” Lydia argued. “It’s Lord Calorian.”

  “Who well you know has failed this kingdom in the past.” Despite her words being directed at the King, Cyntha’s eyes were latched on Lydia, her gaze searing. “Tremon turned his back on Lord Calorian. We’ve seen proof of it. Never mind that he’s Malahi’s tool. He cannot be trusted.”

  Lydia’s skin was crawling. Bringing the Royal Army here was supposed to be delivering Killian from certain death, but now it felt like she’d damned him. “He’s not a tool. He knows nothing about the Princess’s intentions.”

  “That seems unlikely given that he’s planning to marry her,” Serrick growled. “He stands to gain as much as she does.”

  “He didn’t ask for any of this.” Terror was clawing at Lydia’s insides now. “It was forced upon him.”

  “You are the true protector of Mudamora, Your Grace,” Cyntha said. “Chosen by the gods to lead us. But part of that means bringing the Marked who go astray back to heel.”

  “Some are beyond redemption.”

  “Even so, Your Grace.”

  Lydia stared at the woman, expecting to see fanaticism burning in the woman’s eyes, but there was only cunning. She wanted this.

  “The armies of the Seventh stand before you.” Cyntha’s voice rose, loud enough for those around to hear. “None must be left alive!”


  The King lifted his hand, but before he could speak, a commotion ahead caught his attention. Lydia squinted, catching sight of a rider just ahead of the front lines shouting at those whose arrows were trained at him. His face was too blurry for her to make out, but instinct told her who it was. “Killian?”

  He wheeled his horse around, eyes scanning the snow-covered trees.

  Another assassin. Of course Malahi wouldn’t have banked everything on Lydia’s success.

  Then Killian dug his heels into the sides of his horse, the animal leaping forward. Not galloping toward the King, but in the path of—

  “No!” Lydia screamed, but she was helpless to stop the spear that punched into Killian’s unarmored side.

  Lydia lashed her reins against her horse’s neck, driving the animal through the soldiers surrounding the King, barely hearing the shouts of those around her.

  Killian was swaying in the saddle, his shirt already drenched with blood, and then slowly he toppled off the horse.

  A howl tore from her throat, and Lydia flung herself off the side of her own mount, falling to the ground and crawling to his side.

  There was blood everywhere.

  “No, no, no!” She reached for him, but he caught her wrists.

  “Don’t.” The word was strangled, but his grip was strong. “They’ll see. They’ll know.”

  He was right. She could sense the soldiers who’d gathered around them, hear the faint drone of their voices. But she didn’t care. “You’ll die if I don’t.”

  “Doesn’t. Matter.”

  His grip on her was weakening. Marked or not, he was dying, and she refused to lose him.

  Not like this.

  Turning to the watching soldiers, she said, “On my count, I need you to pull the spear out.”

  “It will kill him,” one of them said.

  “It won’t,” she answered. “Because I’m going to save him.”

  “Lydia…”

  “One,” she said, seeing the soldier take hold of the spear. “Two.” He braced his heels.

  “Don’t.” Killian’s eyes were pleading.

  Bending over, she pressed her lips to his, silencing him even as their fingers interlaced. “Three.”