Daughter of Dusk

by Blackburne, Livia

  He wrapped her hands in his own. “Take care, Kyra.” This time, the thoughts of his betrothed did come into her mind, but Kyra pushed them away. There were bigger things at stake.

  “Thanks for letting me warm up.” She studied his face again as she handed him the blanket, fixing his features to memory.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you shiver so much,” he said, smoothing the blanket back over his bed. “And you must have scaled walls on colder nights than this.”

  “It was windy,” Kyra said.

  “True. Well, maybe you can run extra quickly to stay…” His voice trailed off. The look he turned on Kyra was a little too keen. “You’ve not been running, have you? Did you have to stay out in the cold somewhere?”

  “I…” Kyra trailed off, distracted by the memory of Tristam and Cecile. No sooner after she faltered did she realize that she should have kept talking. Tristam’s brow furrowed, and she could see him trying to figure out why Kyra was slow to answer what she realized now had been an innocent question.

  Then his eyes widened in a mixture of comprehension and dread. “You saw her, didn’t you?”

  It wasn’t the first time that Kyra wished Tristam weren’t quite so observant. Her silence spoke more clearly than any affirmative, and Tristam let out a soft groan. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  “I wasn’t spying. You weren’t here when I came to find you, and then I saw you return with her.” She didn’t want to argue with Tristam over this, not when she didn’t know when she’d see him again. “She seems nice,” Kyra finished lamely, belatedly wondering if it came across as sarcastic.

  There was a grim humor in Tristam’s eyes as he took in her words. He sat down heavily on his bed. “I have very little to complain about,” he said. “She’s pleasant and close to me in age.”

  Kyra didn’t want to hear this, but he was staring past her without seeing her.

  “Cecile is lovely and talented, and clearly cares about her family.” Tristam shook his gaze from whatever he’d been looking at and focused his eyes back on Kyra. “I feel nothing for her,” he said simply. “Nor does she feel anything for me. We’re both well trained in the courtly arts. We can exchange pleasantries for an hour, and we can smile at each other over dinner. I suppose marriages have been built on less.”

  Though it pained her to hear about this girl, Kyra also realized now how self-centered she’d been. She’d painted herself as the victim in this scenario, the city girl who would be tossed aside by a nobleman. But she hadn’t considered how hard it would be for Tristam. He wasn’t some fatpurse who took and discarded women at his whim. He was bound by his family and his duties in a way that Kyra never would be.

  She crumpled the hem of her tunic. It was time to grow up. “I said some things I shouldn’t have, when we last spoke of your marriage.” Right before I turned into a felbeast, eviscerated a man, and had to flee the city, she thought ruefully. How had so much happened in so little time? “It was unfair of me to be so upset with you. I understand that you have duties to your family.”

  He met her eyes with gratitude. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I shouldn’t have hidden it from you.”

  Kyra looked to the window. She needed to go. There were preparations to make if she was going to attempt her new plan. But her conversation with Tristam didn’t seem quite complete. She swallowed. “Do what you think is best, Tristam. Whatever you decide, I’ll still be your friend and comrade-in—”

  She didn’t get to finish the last few words, because he closed the distance between them, threaded his arms behind her back, and kissed her.

  Kyra drew half a breath in surprise before his lips met hers and her mind went blank. They had kissed once before. That had been a stolen moment, shy and uncertain. This time, it was also a stolen moment, but it was far different. There was an urgency in the way he pulled her close, an insistence in the way his lips sought hers, as if they might never do this again. Kyra understood it, because she felt the same. She returned his kiss with equal fervor, her world shrinking down to just the two of them, his hands in her hair and hers tightly clutching his waist. His tongue parted her lips, and she gasped as a shiver danced down her spine and her knees went weak. She could lose herself like this, forget about betrothals and marriage negotiations, forget about what she was going to do right after she climbed out the window.

  But, of course, she couldn’t. Even as she reached up to cup his face, even as she wished she could pull him even closer, she knew this. They weren’t some lovers from a talesinger’s ballad, about to run off into each other’s arms. The next morning, Tristam would continue his negotiations with the family from Parna, and Kyra would go back into hiding. That is, if Kyra survived the night.

  Perhaps Tristam sensed the direction of her thoughts, because he pulled back. He looked as if he wasn’t quite sure what had happened. And neither was she, for that matter. Kyra’s heart still pounded in her chest, and she was sure her face was just as flushed as his. She couldn’t look away from his eyes. Tristam was watching her as if convinced she was about to disappear.

  And Kyra supposed she was. She gathered her resolve before it could weaken any further and pushed him away.

  “I can’t,” she said quietly. “And neither can you.”

  He accepted her words without argument, closing his eyes in resignation. “I’m sorry.”

  She wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. The marriage negotiations? The kiss? She wasn’t sure if it mattered, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. “I really should go,” said Kyra.

  He watched her silently as she pushed open the shutters and climbed back out. When Kyra peered back in from the ledge, he’d sunk down into a chair, his forehead resting on his hand. His eyes were open, but his gaze was focused on something Kyra couldn’t see.

  T W E N T Y - T W O

  As always, the darkness cleared her mind, and the task before Kyra forced her to focus. In that way, she was grateful for the danger. The need to maintain her balance on the ledges and make plans for her next step was the only thing that could keep Tristam from her thoughts.

  The first things she needed were supplies. Here, her knowledge of the Palace, her thief’s knowledge, proved useful. She broke into a minor storehouse and pilfered some twine, some leftover biscuits, Minadan hot pepper powder, and a few strips of cloth. She wrapped the pepper powder into four loosely tied cloth packets and stowed them in her belt pouch. Then she made her way toward one shack she’d never entered before, one that reeked with the smell of old blood. The guard here was uncharacteristically light for the inner compound. There was no one at the door, and only the occasional patrol. Kyra supposed it made sense. What sane intruder would voluntarily make for the torture master’s storage house? The lock gave way without much problem, and Kyra felt her resolve weaken as the door swung open. There were things here that she didn’t want to look at or think about, wicked-looking knives and racks, other implements she didn’t even recognize that were still crusted with blood. It would not be good to be caught here.

  Kyra waited for her eyes to acclimate to what sparse moonlight filtered in through cracks around the door. There was only one wagon, and she recognized it immediately from previous execution marches. It was a platform on wheels with a single pole and crossbeam on top for the prisoner to be lashed to. She had never followed the execution parade, but she knew its path. The wagon would come out of the Palace and wind through the streets, making its way to the merchant’s ring before circling back to the city center. People would be gathered on either side, jeering and throwing refuse. It was always very crowded.

  Kyra crawled between the wheels and felt around with her hands, hoping for some shelf underneath she could cling to, but she found nothing. She supposed it was too much to wish that the wagon would come ready with a hiding place. She crawled back out and wondered if she was taking too much of a risk. But then she imagined James stretched on a rack in the city square, skin flayed open, and b
ile rose in her throat. She would try this.

  It was too dark to see. Kyra brought out her flint, some dried moss, and a stick, listening carefully for footsteps outside. There was always a chance someone would see light leaking from between the slats of the shed, but she couldn’t do this blind. She struck her flint until a spark caught in the moss she’d laid out on the floor, then coaxed the flame to life. In its light, she could barely make out the contours of the wagon. She scanned its surface, looking for slots between planks where she could thread some twine. When she found what she was looking for, she blew out the flame. The rest she would do by touch.

  Kyra reached into her belt pouch for four pieces of twine and threaded each one around a plank, tying them into loops. They’d be visible from the side of the wagon, but the wood was rough and uneven in color, and she hoped that everyone would be paying more attention to the prisoner than to the execution cart. She crawled underneath and pulled the loops through, then threaded cloth through them so that two long strips ran along the length of the wagon. She tested whether the strips could hold her, hooking her feet over them and spreading the weight of her chest and torso over the length of her arms. It wasn’t comfortable, but she’d be able to hold on long enough. With those preparations in place, Kyra let go again and settled in for a wait. She didn’t dare sleep, but she curled up under the wagon and tried to make herself as comfortable as possible on the hard ground.

  Gradually, light started to filter in from outside. The padlock securing the outside door clanked, and Kyra hurriedly pulled herself up so she was flat against the bottom of the wagon. She saw a pair of boots walk in. Metal clanged as the boot’s owners walked around, rearranging equipment. A few times, he threw something on the wagon, and Kyra felt the thud vibrate throughout the frame. Finally, he pulled the wagon outside. If he noticed the extra weight on the wagon, he gave no indication. He hitched a horse to the front. Then a group of soldiers marched toward the wagon—four sets of booted feet surrounding a pair of bare feet in tattered trousers.

  The wagon rocked to and fro as soldiers lashed James to the wagon. The planks above Kyra warped with the extra weight, and she eyed the knots in the cloth that supported her, hoping they wouldn’t unravel. James made no noise, and Kyra’s stomach tightened as a drop of blood landed on the ground.

  It was an agonizingly long wait before the wagon finally started rolling. As they came closer to the Palace gates, Kyra heard the roar of the crowd, the anticipating energy. Then they were past it and surrounded by jeering onlookers.

  The cobblestones rolled beneath her, about two hand-widths below her nose. Kyra had to be careful not to stare too long at them, lest they make her dizzy. It would be easy enough to get sick here, with her stomach tight as it was. Though she tried to spread her weight along as much of her body as possible, she felt a light numbness through her arms. Kyra flexed her fingers and shifted her weight, doing her best to loosen up. She was waiting for a certain street just outside the merchants’ district, where the road became narrower and the rooftops leaned in close. That was when she would make her move.

  It was hard to navigate when she could see only gutters and the occasional building foundation, but she managed to keep track of where she was. The wheels in front of her tossed up stones as they turned, and though she managed to dodge most of them, a few left stinging imprints on her skin. The mud was harder to evade, and Kyra soon gave up on avoiding splatters. Slowly, the wagon neared the bottleneck. Three turns away, then two turns, then one.

  Ahead of her, the street narrowed and the Red Shields on either side moved to the wagon’s front and back, though there was still enough room along the sides for someone small to squeeze through. Kyra took one last breath. Then she dropped to the ground, scrambled between the still-moving wagon wheels, and pulled herself over the edge.

  The scene hit her all at once. The wagon was in a narrow alleyway. Red Shields stood ahead of and behind it, facing a crowd of men, women, and children along the road. The bystanders pressed in on the soldiers, though their screams quieted as Kyra stood up to her full height. She got her first glimpse of James as she drew her dagger. He was, as she’d expected, lashed to the crossbeams on top of the cart. He was thinner than she remembered. There were fresh bruises on his face, and a patch of blood seeped through his tattered trousers above his knee. But his gaze was still quick. In a split second, he took in Kyra’s dagger, the Red Shields around them, the hanging rooftops, and the hungry crowd around them. Comprehension lit his eyes.

  Why should they dictate how we live and how we die?

  “Would you choose the way you die?” Kyra’s question came out breathless. With the roar of the crowd around her, there was no way he could have made out her words. But she could see that he understood nonetheless.

  “Do what you came to do,” he said. His gaze was as intense as she’d ever seen it. Was he angry at her? Grateful? Kyra didn’t have time to wonder. Red Shields were pointing at her and shouting, and she had to make her move. She closed the distance between them. He caught her eyes as she raised her knife to his throat, and such was the strength he projected that Kyra could not look away. The edge of her blade nicked his skin, and still their gazes remained locked. One stroke, then it would be over, quick and clean. But Kyra couldn’t move.

  The wagon rocked. Kyra cursed her hesitation and whipped around as a Red Shield pulled himself onto the back edge of the cart. She grabbed a pepper pouch and threw it at him. Her left-handed throw went wide, but the second try caught the soldier square in the face, and he fell backward onto his comrades. Kyra pivoted and threw her remaining pouches at the guards on the other side.

  Then, as red pepper dust still hung in the air, Kyra turned, gritted her teeth, and buried her blade in James’s stomach.

  He shuddered once, the muscles of his throat tightening and his jaw clenching against the pain. As warm blood washed over Kyra’s hands, a memory came to her. She was on the floor of James’s study, convulsing around his blade as she bled out onto his floor. You could have gone far, he’d whispered. The scar on her own abdomen throbbed in recognition.

  She heard James’s voice again, and it took her a moment to realize that this wasn’t from her memory. He was speaking, though Kyra couldn’t make out the words. Her body was tangled up with his. She still held her dagger, buried in his stomach, and she’d grasped the back of his neck for leverage. Kyra could feel a layer of sweat on his skin, his pulse growing erratic under her fingers. As he struggled to draw breath, she tilted her head to let him speak into her ear.

  “Choose your fight,” he said.

  Then he slumped into his bindings, and the life left his eyes.

  T W E N T Y - T H R E E

  There was no time to pause, to wallow in what she had done. No time to clean her dagger, wipe James’s blood off her hands, or search his face for any remaining message. The crowd was screaming. The dust had cleared. Two Red Shields, one on either side, jumped onto the wagon. Kyra thrust her knife into her boot and leaped for an overhang, pulling herself up and away as the soldiers reached to grab her.

  She sprinted down the row of rooftops, jumping between uneven levels and rolling when she took a long drop. But even as she pulled farther away from the wagon, Kyra realized she’d miscalculated. She’d traveled these rooftops before and knew a path that would take her to the city wall, but she’d underestimated the crowds. They were everywhere, and already, she could hear people shouting to stop the lass on the rooftops. She skidded to a stop at the last house and looked down into the faces of wide-eyed watchers below, packed so tightly she couldn’t even see the ground. Kyra turned around to see Red Shields climbing up awkwardly after her. Then the first arrow struck by her feet.

  Kyra scrambled away from the edge and crouched as another arrow soared over her head. The way forward was closed to her. Behind her, three Red Shields gained their footing and raced toward her. Kyra hesitated a brief moment, then ran straight at them. The houses along this street had court
yards, and Kyra dropped into one, pressing herself between a row of hedges and the wall. She wasn’t very well sheltered here. The hedge was only slightly taller than she was, about three hand-widths from the wall. An overhang from the roof offered some coverage from above, but there was plenty of open space between the roof and the top of the hedge through which someone could see her.

  Kyra struggled to calm her breathing as the footsteps above came closer. Her blood ran hot with the battle rage she was coming to expect every time she killed. Her fur called to get out, and Kyra knew instinctively that to change form right now would take no effort at all. She thought for a moment about succumbing to the change, of exploding out of the hedges and onto the soldiers who chased her. But there were so many bystanders around, and she didn’t know what she would do to them.

  The shouts were all around her now, accompanied by thuds as men dropped onto hard dirt. Kyra peered through a gap in the leaves and counted eight Red Shields, though they moved in and out of view so quickly that she couldn’t be sure. It would only be a matter of time before they found her.

  She drew her dagger once more. But then, was she really expecting to fight eight swordsmen with a knife? No, there was only one way she could take on all of them. Kyra could feel the heat within her, eager to come out. Could she simply change form and run for the walls? She didn’t hate these men like she’d hated Santon. Maybe she could control it this time.

  A shadow fell across her. A soldier hung his head and shoulders off the rooftop, looking down at her hiding place. He opened his mouth to call the others.

  Before he could speak, Kyra climbed, using the wall and the hedge for footholds, and gripped his tunic. He made an ill-fated grab for the roof but missed, and they both fell, stripping leaves and branches from the hedges. Kyra landed in a crouch. The soldier landed face-first and groaned.