by Jon Sprunk
The cell door rattled. Caim took a deep breath. If they let me free, even for a moment, I'll damned well take one of them with me. He clenched both hands into fists, not caring about the pain. The soldiers were fully armored, but he might be able to get his fingers inside one of their visors. Take out an eye. Pluck a dagger from a sheath and plunge it under a gorget. He let out the breath, and almost choked when the door swung open.
“Caim?”
This isn't real. He tried to swallow, but his throat had closed up. I've gone mad. It can't be.
A wan face peered into the cell. Her eyes widened as she entered. “Caim!”
Then she was draped across him. He buried his face in her hair, afraid to believe it was really her. Then he noticed the bloody knife in her hand. “Kit? What happened? Did they hurt you?”
She planted a kiss on his mouth. Her lips were hungry, her tongue darting out to caress his, and for a moment he forgot all about his captivity, the time they'd been apart, everything. The moment could have lasted forever, as far as he was concerned. When she pulled away, he kept his eyes closed. Then he felt her fumbling with his shackles. Caim opened his eyes and found himself staring at her chest, and not minding at all.
“I'm fine,” she said, sorting through a ring of keys. “But you look pretty rough.”
Caim advised her to try the small iron key he had seen his captors use. “Where did you get that knife?”
The lock holding his right wrist clicked open, and Kit moved to the other one. “I stole it from a mess hall not too far from here.”
Caim sighed as his hands were released and pinpricks raced into his extremities. His right hand began to ooze. “And the blood?”
Kit handed him the knife, hilt first. “Here. We need to get moving. Can you walk?”
“I can try.” Getting to his feet took a painful effort even with Kit's help. His legs wobbled, both knees screaming out as they took his full weight. But once he got up, he felt a little better. The returning sensation caused his right hand to throb. “So are you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?” she asked.
Caim looked her up and down. She wore a short yellow smock that hung a few inches below her bottom. It was a shapeless rag, but she made it look damned good. “You're real.”
She smacked him in the arm-his good arm. “I was always real, dummy. You just couldn't feel me before.”
“And I'm not complaining, but-”
“It's a long story. But I promise I'll tell you everything once we get out of this place.”
“Is this something you did purposely, Kit? Why would you-?”
“For you. All right?” She pushed a strand of silver hair out of her eyes. It was such a Kit gesture that he wanted to kiss her again. “I couldn't bear to see you go back to that mud-woman.”
“Josey?”
“I saw you go back to the palace. I heard everything. I just…I wanted a chance with you. A real chance.”
He pulled her close. She resisted for a moment, but then melted into him. “I love you, too,” he whispered.
Caim finally released her, and they went to the cell door. The hallway was clear.
“Why haven't you used your shadow friends to escape?” Kit asked as she led him the opposite way from the torture chamber.
They passed other doors, and Caim wondered who was behind them. “I tried, but I don't think they'll obey me here. Something's changed. Do you know where Malig is being held?”
She led the way down another corridor. This one had a brighter light at its end, some forty or so paces away. “Changed how?”
“They don't come all the time when I call. And even when they do, it's different. Like they've gone wild.”
“They were always wild, Caim.” Kit paused and forced him to halt with her. He hissed as his wounded hand brushed against the wall. “But what you said reminds me of…”
“What?” When she didn't answer right away, he pressed, “What, Kit?”
“Your mother.”
“What about her?”
Kit started walking again. “When she was in the south with you and your father, she hardly used her powers at all. I didn't pay much attention to it. To tell you the truth, I was actually glad about it. Being around the shadows has never been too comfortable for me. And I suspect your father felt the same way. But she got headaches sometimes and would take to bed for days at a time. Now that I think of it, she hadn't been, you know, feeding since she left the north. Maybe that relates to your problems.”
Caim remembered how the shadows had fed on the dying, the way they sucked at the blood. Whenever he killed lately, he'd felt like he wanted to drink with them. “They're hungry.”
He meant it as a whisper, but Kit smacked him in the stomach. “That's got to be it! Just feed the shadows more, and then they'll respond to you again.”
“No.”
“Why not? What's the difference between feeding them and just killing for money? This will actually be better. It'll be for a higher purpose.”
“No, Kit.” He would have pushed away from her if he didn't think he would fall on his face. And she smelled so damned good. “You don't know what it's like, watching them feed. Knowing you made it possible. It makes me feel like a monster. I won't do it again.”
“Listen. There's a guard room just a few floors above-”
“I won't do it.”
“Even if it means dying? Without seeing your mother again, or the sun, or even that damned mud-woman?”
Caim swore under his breath. She wasn't fighting fair. But before he could muster an answer, she said, “Caim, you can't defeat these people without your full strength. You have to know that.”
You think I don't? Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his failures again. Aemon's death. Dray's, too. He hadn't been strong enough to protect them. And now Kit was here, in the flesh, and she was the one carrying him. But if he gave in to his shadow side, would he lose what was left of his human soul? Kas's voice echoed in his head.
Caim, you've been walking a line between light and dark your whole life. Maybe it's time to choose a side and stick with it.
Kit stopped again and put a hand on his chest. “You can have my blood.”
“Kit! No!” He shoved past her, hobbling down the corridor. Up ahead, the light had grown brighter.
With a loud huff, Kit caught up to him and slipped her head under his arm again. The corridor entered a small room. Caim dimly remembered passing through here when he was first brought to the prison. Three gaolers had been playing stones at the table in the center. There was only one man here now, lying facedown on the floor in a pool of blood. Kit tugged on Caim's arm without meeting his gaze. “This way.”
Impressed, he followed her through to another small room. This was where they had stripped and searched him. Besides the archway he had originally entered, there were two doors. Holding the knife low, Caim eased open one of them and found a long storage room. Bundles of clothing, shoes, and other personal effects were piled on shelves and hanging on hooks, all kinds of clothing from peasant rags to fine silks and dainty caps. Caim found his gear on the floor, including his belt with the suete knife still in its sheath, but the seax knife was missing. He looked around while he pulled on his pants, but there was no sign of it.
“We have to get going,” Kit whispered. “More guards could be coming anytime.”
Caim stepped out, pulling his jacket over his injured hand with care. “You didn't time their rotations?”
She huffed and glared at him. “No. But if I'm not rescuing you correctly, I can just take you back to your cell to rot some more.”
“You're doing wonderfully.” He held up his belt. “Would you mind?”
Kit buckled it around his waist while he held his hand over his head. The flayed skin was oozing again, but they didn't have time to bind it. He considered shoving the hand into a glove, but didn't think Kit would appreciate having to carry him if he passed out. Caim hissed as he pushed his damaged feet
into his boots. The he slipped the butcher's knife through his belt and drew his suete with his good hand. Kit looked like she wanted to cry.
“You all right?” he asked.
She brushed a hand over her eyes. “I'm fine. I just want to get out of here.”
Through the archway was a short corridor leading to a staircase that ran both up and down. Kit started up the steps with Caim holding her arm. He was feeling a little stronger, but after waiting so long to touch her, he didn't want to let go.
They ascended one floor, and Caim expected Kit to keep going-his cell was several levels below the street level-but she led him through an open doorway. Seeing more rows of wooden cell doors, he realized why. “Malig's down this way?”
Kit nodded as she pulled out the ring of keys. “I think this is where they keep most of the prisoners.”
Thankfully, one master key opened all the locks, so they were spared from having to find the right fit for each door. Kit stood behind Caim as he peered into the cells. The first couple were empty, though they smelled awful. Then Caim pushed open the heavy door to the third cell, and light spilled into the dim room. Malig sat against the far wall with his legs drawn up. He was bare-chested. His torso and arms were matted with thick brown hair. “Dray?” he asked. “That you?”
Caim swallowed. What kind of nightmares was the man having to think his dead friend was here for him? “It's Caim, Mal. And I've brought a friend.”
Malig climbed to his feet. Large bruises glared purple and black on his arms and a few spots on his torso through the hair, but otherwise he didn't appear to have been harmed. Physically, at least.
Malig walked out of the cell, his long hair trailing across his shoulders. “You're the last damned person I expected to see, Caim. Who's this?”
“This is Kit. A friend of mine.”
With a wink at Caim, Kit extended her hand. “Nice to finally meet you in the flesh, Malig.”
Caim resisted the urge to smack her on the bottom. “We're getting out of here.”
“That sounds good to me,” Malig said.
“You know where they stowed your gear?”
“I've got no fucking idea. But just put a sword in my hands. Or a good axe. They won't take me alive next time.”
“I'd rather there wasn't a next time.” Caim turned to Kit. “Which way?”
“We should go back to the stairs,” she said. “They're the fastest way out of the building, but there's more guard rooms on the floors above.”
“Perfect,” Malig said with a grim smile. “Dray wanted to send Aemon off to heaven on a river of blood. I say we open the floodgates.”
Caim stayed by Kit's side as they made their way back to the stairs. All was quiet aside from the slap of their footsteps, and yet his stomach was clenched tight. It would only take one outcry, one alert guardsman, to ruin their chances. The guardroom on the next floor was empty. Malig found a long cloak to throw around his shoulders and a rack of swords. He tried a couple, swinging them around, and settled on a hand-and-a-half bastard sword with a wide blade.
Caim glanced back in the direction of the stairs. He didn't know which way to go from here. The shadow warriors had used a portal to transport him down to the dungeons. If he had his full strength back, that might have been an option now. Kit's offer echoed in his mind. You can have my blood.
He crammed it back with all his other problems. He needed to focus. “Where do we go from here?”
Kit pointed to a door on the other side of the room. “I think that will take us out to a lower level of the city.”
“Fuck leaving.” Malig struck his newfound sword against the stone floor so that the steel rang. “Let's go reap a slaughter on these pigs. For Dray and Aemon.”
“No.” Caim knew what he had to do, but enough people had died for his cause already. “Mal, you're taking Kit out of the citadel. Once you're back in town, find horses or steal them, and ride south-”
Kit leveled a finger at him. “No, Caim! I'm not leaving without you. We both go, or we both stay.”
“I have to complete what I started.”
“Fine,” she said. “Then I'm coming with you.”
“You're not Fae anymore.”
Malig frowned at Kit. “What?”
“I don't know how you managed it,” Caim continued, “but I won't let you put yourself at risk for me anymore.”
“You don't get to decide that,” she responded.
“No need to argue,” Malig said. “We'll all go look for some blood to spill.”
Caim stepped closer to Kit. Her eyes were huge pools of violet water threatening to overspill. “I can't lose you,” he whispered. “Please go. If I can, I'll find you after…”
“No you won't. But if I can't stop you, then remember this.” She rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him with her open mouth. Warm, coppery liquid spilled onto his tongue. Caim tried to pull back, but she pressed herself harder against him. His efforts to break away lessened as a buzz stirred inside him. It began in his stomach and flowed outward through his entire body, filling him with a pure, white-hot energy. It cleansed away his exhaustion and pain. Even his hand ceased to bother him. When he opened his eyes, the world had changed. The walls of the room pulsed with life-tiny darknesses oozed down the surfaces and greeted him with soft chitters. Finally, he pushed her away.
“What did you-?”
Kit wiped her bloody lips with the back of her hand. “Call it a wedding gift. Now go kick some ass.”
Wedding gift?
Caim looked to Malig, and the Eregoth snorted. “Don't look to me for another kiss. And don't worry either. I'll get your girlfriend out of here. You sure you're going to be all right alone?”
“I'll manage.”
Kit gestured back to the stairwell. “Those go most of the way up. After that, I don't know. And there will be guards.”
Caim nodded. “I understand. Better get going.”
Malig peered out the other door. “Looks good. Come on, girlie.”
Kit stopped on the threshold. “Be careful, Caim.”
“I will.”
Malig saluted with his sword. “I got her, boss. Go get some.”
As the door closed behind them, Caim called to the shadows. They flew to him like old times, adhering themselves to his skin, their tiny claws nipping at his flesh. The worst was his flensed hand, but the shadows wrapped around it almost gently, enclosing it in a wriggling second skin.
Caim pulled a glove over his newly mended hand. His pulse pumped hard and steady through his veins. A bead of sweat ran down the side of his face, along his jaw, and wavered on his chin. It fell, and he was gone before it hit the floor.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Caim climbed the tall steps of the staircase. Lamplight at each landing cast long shadows across the walls and ceiling. His knees ached a little, but the exercise felt good after being cooped up in the cell.
Windows studded the outer walls at each landing. Beyond their stone casements, the night sky rippled like a sheet of black silk. A moon would have been fitting, big and red like a spot of blood, but there was none. The citadel spread out beneath him in a darkly shining panorama. A great, dead city.
Caim ascended level after level, past empty halls gathering dust, until he reached the top landing. He inched open the door. The room beyond was empty. He entered what was either a long chamber or a wide corridor. A stone table was set against the left-hand wall with two clay jars. The air was dry and carried a faint scent of ordure, or maybe it was his imaginaion. In any case, he was alone. The tugging sensation reawakened in his head, coming from overhead and slightly north. Toward the apex.
He padded around to a bend to discover a door. The brass handle was corroded with verdigris. He lifted the latch and pushed it open. A low creak filled his ears as he peered through the gap. A hallway extended on the other side. The iron cressets on the walls were empty.
Caim advanced with every sense straining to its fullest. He passed an open archway lea
ding into another room, square and deep with a high ceiling. A stone seat sat facing the doorway, flanked by a pair of cold braziers atop small caryatid pillars. He came across other rooms, some empty, others with a few pieces of furniture, but all of them dark. There was no color, no texture save smooth stone. A thick layer of dust covered their floors.
The hallway terminated in an archway. As Caim started toward it, the tromp of marching boots echoed down the hall, and a flicker of torchlight appeared ahead. Caim pressed himself against a wall, drawing the shadows around him. They chittered as they clung to him, and a spasm rippled through his chest. Not painful so much as jarring, like a jab to the breastbone. The feeling subsided just as two Northmen in black plate armor marched through the archway. One held a halberd across his chest, the other an oil-soaked torch.
Caim waited until the soldiers passed by, and then he emerged behind them. The torch-bearer's gasp was like air rushing from a bellows as the point of the suete knife punched through the mail webbing under his armpit. At the same time, the butcher's knife thrust between the gap of the halberdier's helmet rim and the collar of his backplate. Caim shoved hard with a foot stomp and pulled his knives loose as the Northmen toppled. The torch guttered on the floor and went out.
Shadows descended on the dying men, and through them Caim tasted the dwindling life forces, felt their energy flowing into his bloodstream. His heart beat strong and a trifle too fast, as if intoxicated by the power. Caim breathed through his nose until the rush abated.
The small chamber beyond the archway had a vaulted ceiling and four branching corridors, but no soldiers down any of them. He chose the north hallway and found more stairs at its end. This staircase had no landings, but kept rising around a central newel column as thick as a wagon wheel. Caim climbed with both knives ready. The stairs ended at a door made of black stone instead of wood. There was no handle or latch, but a circle had been carved into the center, two handbreadths across. Caim studied the door. It was well set into its frame. A slab of this size would have to weigh at least fifty stone.
