by Keri Arthur
Our time was up.
I scrambled to my feet and then lunged at the biped as it reached for its staff. The knife trailed golden fire as I slashed down at the biped's hand; the blade met armored flesh and sliced through it as easily as water. As blood spurted from cut veins and the biped screamed in fury and pain, I twisted around and thrust the blazing knife into his chest.
The creature exploded into flame. Between one heartbeat and the next, it became little more than cinders.
“Nyx, we need to go.”
“Coming.”
“Now.”
“On my way.”
I twisted around and, more out of instinct rather than anything else, shoved the knife into the middle of the staff. The blade treated the metal as contemptuously as it had the biped’s flesh, and energy crawled across the staff’s surface. The crystal cracked and the prickly sense of power died. I wrenched the staff out of the ground, pulled the knife free, and then ran toward Donal.
“Go,” he said and fired several more shots at the oncoming bipeds before he spun and followed.
We raced over the globs of metal fencing and continued on unhindered. The invisible barrier had obviously fallen when I'd cracked the crystal.
Was that the key to their magic? Or rather, the key to breaking their magic?
The wind began to stir, quickly picking up speed and power, surrounding us in a whirlpool of dust. Donal grabbed my hand and hauled me close; I grunted as we collided and would have fallen if he hadn't caught me, steadied me. A heartbeat later, we were picked up and flung skyward.
Safe.
We were finally safe.
Relief hit and left me shaking. I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against his chest as I sucked in air and tried to control the ridiculous urge to cry. I hadn't given in to such an emotion in twelve years; I wasn't about to do so now, even if the inner me—the me that had, by necessity, been so thoroughly caged since my mother had died—felt oddly safe in the presence of this man.
It didn't take very long to reach the garrison. The wind placed us gently on the wall, but Donal didn't immediately release me. Instead, he stepped back and scanned me. Whatever he saw didn't please him, if the darkening of his expression was anything to go by.
Before he could say anything, the halo came to life, and Marx said, “I want you both in the briefing room ASAP for a full breakdown of events.”
“I'm sorry, Captain, but the princess is dead on her feet. She's been on the go for close to twenty-four hours—she needs to rest before she does anything else.”
I opened my mouth to protest but was silenced by a stern glance. Truth be told, it was taking all my effort to remain upright. I really did want to do nothing more than to grab a hot shower and then climb into bed for several days.
“Fine,” Marx growled. “Donal, you report. Nyx, go rest and we'll talk in the morn.”
“And the night patrols?”
“Have been pulled. We're not risking them now that the bipeds have overrun the Skaran—we'll use the blue hawks to keep an eye on them instead.”
If the blue hawks were capable of successfully monitoring the Wild Lands, I suspected they would have been used well before now. But I kept my mouth shut and simply said, “Thanks, Cap.”
He grunted. “The Red Queen is on her way. Don't be long, Donal.”
I plucked the halo out of my ear and then handed Donal the mage staff. “They’ll want to see this, but don't let them take it apart. I think I've rendered its magic inert, but I'd nevertheless better be the one to fully examine it.”
He nodded. “Do you need any help getting back to the bunk room?”
I half smiled. “I might be physically and mentally exhausted, but I'm not an invalid.”
“I wasn't suggesting—”
“I know.” I touched his arm lightly. “And I appreciate the offer. But I've never had—”
“Anyone to lean on or trust for the last twelve years, and find it difficult to do so now. Believe me, I know.”
I didn't say anything. I couldn't, in all honesty, because what was there to say to someone who so effortlessly saw through all the barriers I'd raised? Someone who understood me so completely?
It was scary, this connection between us. Scary, and yet oddly exhilarating.
And I wasn't sure if I could—or should—do anything about it.
I pulled my hand away and stepped back. Something flickered across his face—an emotion too fast to define—and then he smiled. “I'll see you tomorrow sometime.”
“Yes.” I hesitated and then walked away, aware of his gaze following me; it was a heat that pressed into my spine long after I'd actually moved beyond his line of sight.
I slipped the pack from my aching shoulders and held it by the straps as I clattered down the steps and walked across the yard to ammunitions and supplies. It didn't take very long to sign everything in, but it nevertheless seemed to drain the last remnants of my strength.
Perhaps that's why it took me so long to hear the earth's urgent warning.
When I finally did, I paused and looked around. There were people everywhere, all of them going about their business without paying any particular attention to me.
So why was the earth so convinced I was in danger? What could she see that I couldn't? There was only one way to find out, and that was to ask.
I clattered up the rest of the steps, walked across to the nearest building, and pressed my fingers against the stone.
But before I could do anything more, the metal walkway abruptly shifted, throwing me sideways. Something hit my shoulder with enough force to spin me around and my head smacked into the wall. Blackness hit, and swept me away.
Ten
I woke to a gentle, rhythmic beating. It took me a few minutes to realize it was a sound that matched my heartbeat, which meant I had to be in the hospital.
I did a mental check of body parts, and then gently wiggled toes and fingers. Nothing was missing; everything responded as it should—although there was a niggling ache in my right shoulder and I couldn't move it with any sort of ease given it appeared to be tightly wrapped.
But why?
Even as that question rose, memory hit. I gasped and pushed up—or at least tried to. A hand pressed lightly against my left shoulder and stopped me. My eyes flew open.
“It's okay.” Donal's expression was a mix of concern and anger. The latter, I sensed, wasn't aimed at me but rather the situation. “You're safe.”
“You're here, so of course I am.” I couldn't help the note of irritation in my voice. “But why are we in the hospital?”
“Because you were shot.”
“I was?”
His eyebrows rose. “You can't remember it?”
I hesitated. “I remember the earth's warning and the walkway buckling, and then something hit me. After that, everything is decidedly fuzzy.”
“The earth saved your life,” he said. “By intervening as it did and throwing you off balance, the shot that should have blown your brains apart hit your shoulder instead.”
Which certainly explained the tight bandaging across my right shoulder. “Do you know who the shooter was?”
“No. There were no witnesses, and by the time anyone realized what had happened, they'd slipped away.”
“And Dravan? Was he still locked away?”
“He was sent back to Divona several days ago. It wasn't him.”
Suggesting that either Dravan hadn’t lied when he’d said my brother wasn’t responsible for his attack on me or that my brother had set his hunting bow twice, and I’d yet to meet Vin’s other agent.
Not the sort of news you wanted to wake up to.
“How long have I been out?”
“Only a day. You were kept unconscious while the medics and healers patched your shoulder. It was pretty much a shattered mess.”
If it had taken both surgery and healing magic to fix it, then I really was lucky to have retained use of it.
“Were any wea
pons unaccounted for?”
“No, and the bullet they dug out wasn't standard issue. The shooter must have brought the weapon in with them.” He grimaced. “The captain has ordered a full search done, but I don't think they'll turn up anything. The shooter is too canny to be caught out so easily.”
“Which means I'm a walking target for as long as they are free.”
“Yes, which is why Marttia has sent you this.” He reached behind him, picked up a small, plainly wrapped parcel, and handed it to me.
I accepted it with a frown. There was little weight in it, which was puzzling if whatever lay inside was meant to protect me. “What is it?”
“I don't really know. She handed it to me in secret, said I wasn't to tell anyone else about it, and that such garments have protected her in the past.”
I raised a somewhat skeptical eyebrow but nevertheless tore open the package. Inside was a gossamer shirt of silvery gray. I held it up; against the light, the needle fine threads of metal gleamed. This gorgeous undershirt was apparently a form of bulletproof vest—although how the Mauvaissians had managed to make it so sheer while still retaining its protective properties, I had no idea.
“Even if something like this can stop a bullet in its tracks, it not going to protect me from another head shot.”
“If your attacker has any sort of sense, they'll try something up close and personal next time—like a knife.”
“Isn't that something to look forward to,” I muttered. “I’m surprised Marttia didn't deliver this herself, though. She's the type to use such a situation to her advantage.”
Donal raised an eyebrow. “I get the feeling that despite this tendency, you do not hold her in the same low esteem as all the others.”
I smiled, though it felt tight. “If you're asking if I like her, then yes, I do. She and I could have been a good pairing had circumstances been different. But they aren't, and I’ll never forgive her actions. I’ll never forgive any of them.”
“Which will make your task of ruling them all the more difficult.”
“I'm well aware of that fact.” I placed the shirt and packaging to one side. “What's happening with the bipeds?”
“No sign or movement from them. The wind is monitoring the entire area but cannot see any obvious sign of advancement.”
“She wouldn't if they're going underground.”
“Which is why it's so vital we keep you safe and alive. You're the only one here who can detect the deadness that comes with the tunnel.”
Which was undoubtedly why Marttia had been so secretive about giving me the gossamer body armor—the easiest way to draw out an assassin was to make them think their target was without any obvious form of protection. But I also couldn't help thinking that, at least in part, she'd wanted the garrison kept unaware that her people were capable of creating such a delicate but vital piece of protective armor.
I carefully shifted into a sitting position and for the first time noticed I was in a private ward with guards on the door. They really were serious about protecting me, which was pretty funny considering how desperately the king and my brother wanted me dead.
“Aside from certified hospital staff, only myself, the captain, the commander, and of course Marttia have permission to enter this room,” Donal said, obviously seeing my surprised amusement. “Anyone else will be shot first and questioned second.”
I snorted. “That's a bit extreme, isn't it?”
“No. You lost so much blood that it was a close call as to whether you'd live or not.” He reached out and wrapped his hand around mine. “Thankfully, you're a stubborn wench who refuses to let even death get the better of her.”
“As I keep saying, I'm not going anywhere until I get my goddamn revenge.”
“I don't care what keeps you alive, just as long as you are.”
He squeezed my hand and then released me. I found myself mourning the loss of his touch—another first for me. “How long am I going to be stuck in here?”
“The healer will be back later tonight—he has a couple more muscles to work on. All being well, they'll release you for light duties in the morning.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Light duties? Are they not aware of the trouble headed our way?”
“Yes, but it just means you'll be restricted in what you can carry.”
“Well, I can't say I'm sad about not having to haul a backpack around. I'm sure that thing was loaded with goddamn rocks.”
He grinned. “Fully loaded packs are something of a test for all garrison newbies, I've learned. A means of sorting out the wheat from the chaff.”
“Most of the relief crew are criminals, for gods’ sake. There’s nothing but chaff.”
“Which is why they’re tested. Better to know up front who is going to get on with the task, and who is likely to cause problems.”
“Which doesn't explain why we were tested.”
His smile grew. “I was sent here as a criminal remember, and you were thought to be nothing more than my floozy.”
I raised my eyebrows, a smile lurking about my lips. “Floozy?”
“A rather quaint local term for a man or woman of loose morals.”
“So a trull.”
“No, because a floozy doesn’t accept coin in exchange for his or her services, and are generally—but not always—married.”
“Then either they aren't very good business people or they merely follow the decree of the goddess and therefore do not deserve the term.”
“You skipped over the whole 'married' part of the explanation.”
“Meaning the Westal mountain men do not approve of such extracurricular activities once the bonds of marriage have been made?”
“The Westal mountain women do not approve of it, either, and husbands who stray are most likely to find a knife aimed at their nether regions.”
“If straying is such a rarity, why is there even a term for it?”
“Because it's not so rare amongst those who come from the Arkon region. They have a far more liberal view of matrimonial bonds.”
“And you?” I kept my voice light even if it was something I was suddenly desperate to know.
His expression gained an odd sort of intensity. “The woman I intend to marry should have fully explored the extent of her desires and needs before she commits to me. Once I give my heart, it will not stray, and I expect the same in return.”
“Which is as it should be,” I said softly.
His smile was quick and bright. “I'm glad we agree on something as vital as the marriage bond. It is, after all, the foundation on which many great things have been built.”
My eyebrows rose again. “Like what?”
He waved a hand airily. “Dynasties and the like.”
I snorted. “You're talking to someone who comes from a long line of arranged marriages, and a dynasty that has declined in might over the years.”
“Which is a sad statement about arranged marriages more than anything else.”
I guessed it was. I glanced around at the sound of footsteps. A woman carrying a tray loaded with covered plates approached; she was quickly scanned in and gave me a nod of greeting as she approached. She placed the tray on the nearby table and then wheeled it across to my bed. With another nod, she spun around and left.
I glanced at Donal. “They're a rather serious and noncommunicative lot here, aren't they?”
Donal cleared his throat. “That could have something to do with my presence.”
“Why? What did you do to her?”
“Not her but rather the entire hospital staff. I threatened to rain weather hell down on everyone who worked in this place if they let you slip away. I think I scared them.”
“That's hardly fair given—”
“I know, but fear does sometimes make one act out of character. I apologized, but I think the damage is done.”
The wind's message of oncoming doom had to be pretty intense if Donal had done something like that. I might not have known him l
ong, but I was damn sure such a reaction was well out of character.
“Has Marttia had any success contacting my aunt?”
He nodded. “A search of the old records is underway. If anything is found, they'll contact us via a communicator.”
“I hope to gods she impressed the urgency of the matter on them.” I pulled off the lids from the various trays, revealing a mix of meats, cheeses, breads, and vegetables. There was enough food here to feed my entire squad. “Did she say anything about our request for additional earth mages?”
“No, but that doesn't mean anything. The Gigurrian court is a little more scattered than most, and it takes time for them to gather.”
“We haven't got time, Donal.”
“I know. And unless the earth's voice has suddenly become mute within the Gigurrian borders, then I daresay they’re also aware.”
“If they are, why aren't they already here?” Frustration and anger edged my voice.
“Perhaps for the same reason there are no additional air mages here as yet—the distance.”
A reasonable enough answer but one that didn't ease the frustration. Gigurrian mages might be thin on the ground these days, but the last I'd heard there were at least a dozen earth-sanctified mages aside from my aunt and uncle. A dozen mages could be the difference between Rodestat surviving or not.
“Marttia’s people are also going through their archives, but much of their early history was lost in a volcanic eruption and the subsequent aftershocks that all but destroyed the city eons ago.”
“Surely if they had any knowledge of the bipeds, it would have at least been spoken about. They're not something easily forgotten.”
“You say that, and yet haven’t the history and capabilities of the King’s Sword been forgotten?”
I grimaced. “To be fair, it’s possible that the knowledge simply hasn’t been shared with me. I wasn’t supposed to draw the sword, remember.”
“Considering how vital the sword is to our safety, even that is inexcusable, if for no other reason than the fact that knowledge shared is knowledge not lost.”
