Silverlight

by Jesberger, S. L.

  “Kymber, this is foolish. It’s too dangerous. Push me. Help me wiggle free, and we’ll go home.”

  I knew he was right. I began to agree with him, but he jerked hard once, twice, three times in the window.

  I thought he was trying to free himself again, but when he looked up at me, I knew that wasn’t the case. Horrible sounds came from deep in his throat, half scream, half groan. He jerked once more and went limp, his cheek pressed against the inside wall.

  “Magnus?” I knelt, gripped his shoulders, and shook him. “Magnus? What’s wrong?”

  His eyes rolled back in his head. “Kymber, run. Ru . . . run!”

  I didn’t have time to run. I didn’t even have time to ponder what he meant. The door into the mews crashed open, and the room was suddenly full of Pentorian soldiers.

  “She’s here, she is!” someone shouted. “Take her!”

  They crowded me, their homely faces framed by chainmail hoods, eyes bright with triumph. Open hands clutched at me, too many to fight off, though I tried. The gods know I tried.

  I didn’t have my weapon; it was still propped against the wall where I’d left it with Bloodreign.

  I tried to fight my way to Magnus, but the soldiers held me fast. I whipped my head around instead, before they blocked my view.

  He was unconscious, hanging limp as a sleeping cat over the windowsill.

  “What have you done to him?” I screamed. “What have you done?”

  A vicious backhand across my right cheek dropped me to my knees. The man who’d hit me snatched my braid up in his fist and snapped my head back. “Don’t you worry about that, missy,” he said. “A big man like Tyrix should be able to take a bolt or two to the back and live to tell the tale.”

  A bolt? Or two? They’d shot him with a crossbow!

  “Let me go.” I struggled to rise. “If he dies, I’ll burn the rest of this fucking castle to the ground!”

  The soldiers laughed as they swept me out into the hallway.

  I knew where they were taking me. It was not quite the entrance I’d envisioned.

  53: KYMBER

  “Gods, Kymber, you and Tyrix made enough noise to stir the dead.”

  I swallowed to keep the contents of my stomach intact. I wasn’t having a nightmare. Garai was there, on his throne, in his throne room. The voice was the same. Raspy, arrogant, sure of his might. Where would I ever find the courage to look into his eyes?

  Yet I knew if I didn’t, the bastard would think he had the upper hand. My capture was simply a temporary setback. I was not beaten, not cowed.

  Not yet.

  So I tightened my hold on my composure – and the contents of my stomach – and met his gaze.

  The amused look on Garai’s face sent my thoughts skittering. He’d aged fast – and not well – in the two years I’d been gone.

  His once dark hair was blended white and gray, and he’d let it grow down past his shoulders. It reminded me of an old spider web hanging in an unlit corner, thin and wispy.

  The creases and lines on his face looked as though they’d been wrought with a mallet and chisel. Garai’s ancestors had bequeathed dusky bronze skin to him, but the candlelight in the throne room revealed an unhealthy yellow cast beneath.

  His gray-green eyes were the color of a stormy sea, a potent weapon, as sharp and cruel as any blade, though the right eye seemed to be missing now.

  Missing?

  Well, perhaps not missing. Permanently closed?

  A dreadful scar began at his hairline, ran from the middle of his forehead, traveled through the center of his right eyelid, then tracked downward across his cheek. Whoever had cut him had caught the corner of his mouth with the blade. His lip had healed badly. Split clear up to his right nostril, it looked as though someone deep in his cups had drawn it together and stitched it. A perpetual grimace twisted one side of his face.

  Physically, he was a mess, but I couldn’t allow that to lull me into a false sense of security. What made him dangerous was tucked away inside his skull.

  Garai sat upon his throne with lazy ease, one leg thrown to the side. Our arrival had pulled him from his bed. He still wore his homespun nightshirt, though he’d taken the time to put breeches on beneath it. I sucked in a hopeful breath when I saw the gnarled cane leaning against the throne’s wide arm.

  I’d pay for it later, but I wanted to fire the first shots. “Hello, Garai. You look a bit used up, like something that crawled down from the Shadowlands on webbed feet. And here I thought you might finish evolving if I wasn’t around to distract you.”

  Sparks flew in that one wide eye, dulling a bit when he allowed himself a lascivious smile. “Hello, Kymber. It’s nice to see you again. So kind of you to leave a calling card for me.” He raised his hand; he was clutching a dark ball of fabric.

  It took me a moment to realize what he held in his fist. My breeches. The ones I’d discarded outside, in the hedgerow. He’d had them hidden in the folds of his nightshirt. They’d obviously found the dead men and our clothing, but how did he know it was me?

  Garai answered my internal question in the most chilling way by lifting my breeches to his nose and making a dramatic show of inhaling. He then closed his eyes and smiled. “Ahh. I knew it was you from one sniff of the crotch. I had my nose down there often enough, didn’t I?” He tapped the side of his head with an index finger. “It’s all right here. One doesn’t forget the most delicious thing they’ve ever eaten.”

  A red haze clouded my vision as I struggled with the soldiers who held me. “I’m going to cut your throat, Garai. I’m going to drape you over the parapet and let your blood run down the stones.”

  “Is that so?” Garai shifted on the throne, regarding me with mock interest. “Such an ugly thing to say, Kymber.” He made a noise of disapproval deep in his throat. “I suppose this means we’ll have to begin your training all over again.”

  “No more. No more training. No more cowering.”

  “Hmm. I wonder.” He sat back and rubbed his chin with one hand. “Would you cower to keep me from hurting him?”

  A wide space in front of the throne cleared as if a stiff wind had blown all the guards to one side. Four men dragged Magnus in and threw him to the floor at Garai’s feet.

  Gods. Now I knew why he’d thrashed in the confines of the window. A bolt protruded from his left shoulder, piercing thick leather and chainmail to lodge within him.

  My heart thumped wildly as I assessed Magnus from where I stood. A small trace of blood had seeped out around the bolt. He appeared to be breathing. Maybe he wasn’t too badly hurt. Maybe he would live.

  Why, then, was he as limp as a wet shirt?

  “What did you do to him?” I asked Garai.

  “I soaked the bolt in parinthian root. Magnus Tyrix, the mighty warrior of Jalartha, will now sleep for the length of time I need to find out just how compliant you’re willing to be.” Garai’s eyes moved from Magnus to me. “To keep him whole and healthy.”

  I felt sick. I’d do anything . . . anything . . . to keep Magnus whole and healthy, but that boon wouldn’t last long. Garai would eventually tire of the game he played. He’d kill Magnus right in front of me to prove a point.

  But that threat was a two way street, whether Garai knew it or not. “I’ll do anything you ask, as long as he does stay whole and healthy. Kill him, and you’ll need to sleep with one eye open for the rest of your life.” I smirked. “And since you only have one left…”

  The crowd in the room surged and parted again. A guard marched forth and gifted my captor with Promise and Bloodreign. Garai slid Magnus’s sword halfway out of the sheath and grinned. “Two more trophies to add to my wall. I think I’ll hang them just below Silverlight.” He leaned forward. “You do remember Silverlight, don’t you?”

  Oh, I remembered, but I hadn’t looked up at her. I didn’t want to be reminded of my failures.

  No, not failures, I thought. Not yet. As long as you both live, there’s a chance.


  I lifted my eyes to the reason I was even here in the first place. Silverlight, my beloved sword. The one my father presented to me with tears in his eyes, but only after I’d proven myself worthy. I’d earned her by working hard, training long hours under a hot sun. She was tarnished and dusty, bound to the wall by wire and hooks, but she was intact.

  “Go ahead and hang them.” I affected a bored tone. “They won’t be there long.”

  Garai laughed harshly. “Oh my, Kymber, you give me chills when you talk like that.” He rose from the throne and stepped down to face me. “Do you remember Tavia Thrallkeld?”

  He moved to one side and clapped his hands. Tavia stepped out from behind his throne, holding a small crossbow in her right hand. Hoisting the weapon onto her hip, she stared at me with feral amber eyes.

  “Did you shoot him?” I asked, nodding at Magnus.

  “I did,” Tavia replied.

  “Then I owe you one.”

  An odd wave of revulsion and longing struck me when she smiled and nodded, her long, golden-brown hair rippling like silk. “I’ve missed you, Kymber.”

  The voice of a goddess. I lost all sense of time and space as she moved toward me, her gleaming eyes holding mine like golden shackles.

  She was the Tavia I remembered, with a twist. No longer garbed in the plain dresses of an apprentice healer, she now wore the leather uniform of a Pentorian warrior assassin. Her jacket was stunning, and it fit her to perfection: glossy black, short, buckled tightly in front at the waist.

  Three black leather panels trimmed in gold satin fell away in a smart drape from her waist, intended to protect her hips and thighs from sharp weapons. Form-fitting black hose and knee-high leather boots with silver buckles completed the ensemble.

  My eyes could not reconcile the woman standing before me with my memories.

  Tavia Thrallkeld, of the kind hands and soft mouth. She brought her ointments and herbs and poultices to my room when Garai finished with me, murmuring comforting words as her fingers soothed my battered flesh. Tavia took care not to hurt me any more than was necessary when she came to me. She’d lovingly cleaned and dressed my wounds, which made her an anomaly in the world I inhabited then.

  I craved human contact. No surprise that I opened myself to her like a flower unfurls to sunshine. Finished working her magic as a healer, she would make magic as a lover, helping me forget where I was for a time. Her fingers, her kisses . . . I shivered. “A woman knows what a woman likes,” she’d whisper in my ear.

  Tavia was tall and elegant, screaming sensuality with every step she took. She closed her eyes and began to lower her mouth to mine even before she got to me. Mesmerized, head tipped back, my lips parted to accept her kiss.

  A distant voice shouted a warning in my head. It took me a moment to recall the core truth about Tavia.

  Yes, she’d been gentle and caring, but she was still Garai’s creature. Two sides of the same coin, only she used pleasure the way Garai used pain. Either way, I’d been helpless, and I was done with helpless.

  At the first brush of her lips on mine, I slammed my forehead into her nose and upper lip. She hissed an oath and recoiled. Seconds later, she slapped me with so much force that I blacked out.

  I awoke to her bending over me, holding a bloody cloth to her face. “Bitch. You’ll pay for that.”

  Her words came out muffled. I was tempted to laugh but I realized no one was restraining me. Ah well, in for a penny, in for a pound. I swung my fist and connected with the side of her head. It earned me several brutal kicks in the stomach and ribs, and more pain than I’d known for a while. I curled into a ball and went still as Tavia’s boot dug into my side.

  Garai knelt beside me. My stomach roiled at his scent: iron and piss and filthy male. “Yes, I can clearly see you’ll have to be retrained. We’ll start now.” He rose. “Get her up,” he snapped to the guards.

  I was unceremoniously hoisted to my feet. Garai used my braid to yank my head back. Second time today. I resolved to cut the damned thing off first chance I got.

  “The uniform you’re wearing belongs to me. Take it off. All of it,” he said.

  A familiar coldness poured over me, but I knew this was just the beginning. He’d do much worse before the day was over.

  Still, I said with as much fury as I could muster, “I will not.”

  His good eye glittered with amusement. “You will.” Slowly, slowly, he moved toward Magnus, sliding Bloodreign from its sheath. Garai straddled Magnus’s body and pressed the point against the back of his neck. “Or I’ll kill him.”

  “No!” I surged forward and met a wall of hands and bodies. “No. Please. I’ll take the clothes off.”

  I took hold of the ties lacing the jerkin, briefly thinking of the shoe nails. The ones I was going to use to pick locks, and there would most certainly be locks to pick. Shackles. A cage. Both. If I stripped, I’d lose the nail hidden in the collar of the jerkin.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t make me remove my boots. My heart clenched in my chest. Of course he would. He wanted me bared to my soul, humiliated and weeping.

  I screamed obscenities in my head, but I didn’t give them voice. It wouldn’t do any good. Garai would find out just how much I was willing to endure to keep Magnus alive.

  I moved trembling fingers down the ties of the leather vest, counting silently as I did so. One, two, three, four – as though it would bolster my courage. As though I could somehow draw strength from that mundane act.

  The counting helped somewhat, but I lost anything I’d gained when I slid the jerkin down my arms and off my shoulders. This was happening, truly happening, and there was nothing I could do about it. Garai had me right where he wanted me, only this time he had the man I loved as well.

  I gripped the edge of the hauberk and pitched headlong into pity. We’d been fools. Fools! What made me think we could sneak into Garai’s castle unnoticed? I, of all people, should’ve known better. After all, it had taken me eight years to find a single moment of opportunity.

  I should’ve been satisfied with Promise, but killing Tariq made me feel invincible. A moment of thought, of thought grounded in reality, would’ve spoken the truth to me.

  “Faster, Kymber.” Garai’s eye was a hot flame on my body. There was no point in delaying the inevitable.

  I pulled the hauberk over my head and threw it on the floor. I removed the thin chemise and hose next. I knew the answer, but I couldn’t resist asking: “My boots too?”

  “Everything,” he said in a low voice. “I want to see you naked.”

  I gave a short bark of laughter. “Well, of course you do.”

  He ran light fingertips over my cheeks. “Oh, how I’ve missed you, my fiery Kymber. It was almost worth losing you. You’re as brazen as you were when I first took you, but I have a desire to gaze upon my handiwork.”

  “Handiwork?”

  “The scars I left upon your body with my lash.”

  His words were arrows and they went deep. I had nothing to say. I crouched to remove my boots, tears pooling.

  He wasn’t done twisting the knife in my gut yet. “You know, Kymber, when I first heard of you, I didn’t believe it. A woman warrior? Bah! I scoffed and said it was impossible. Women are weak and emotional. They make lousy warriors.”

  I glared at Tavia, holding that bloody cloth to her face. “Clearly, you’ve changed your mind about that.”

  “Thanks to you. Tavia has earned the honor of induction into the Pentorian Guild of Assassins, while you . . . well, you’ve thrown all that away, haven’t you?”

  I took my fingers off my bootlaces. Garai never wasted an opportunity to shove the sword a little deeper.

  “But I’m not finished. I heard more stories about you. ‘Unbeatable,’ they said. ‘Flawless with a sword. The best in Calari.’ I was interested, but not enough to seek you out.” He bent to speak in my ear, sending a wave of shivers over me. “And then you killed Beshum Ornatis all by yourself, without any help from Magn
us or the men who coddled you, and I began to believe you might be the real thing.”

  I sucked in a breath. Beshum Ornatis had been Jalartha’s town bully. He was in his mid-thirties, tall and massive, solid as an oak. Loud. Everyone feared him. I’d always given him wide sway.

  Until the day I wandered into Amix’s cantina with a terrible thirst. Alone.

  Beshum swiped my first glass of tequanti right out from under my nose, then roared with laughter before downing it in a single swallow.

  I remember thinking, That’s one.

  Then came two and three and four. I counted to five before I slipped off the stool and pulled Silverlight.

  Beshum taunted me before the entire cantina. “Oh no, what’s the little girl going to do about the big, bad man who’s taking her drinks?” He thought he was the mighty lion about to eat the squirrel.

  He stopped talking when I opened a bloody slash down to the bone on his left thigh.

  A wound that bad would have dropped any other man, but Beshum just growled. “I’ll crush you, cunt.”

  Gods, I hated that word. I heard it often enough. He had no way of knowing he was lighting a fire.

  He came at me, both hands wide open, each stomp of his foot shaking the glasses lined up behind the bar. Beshum was intent on crushing my head like an egg. He would’ve done it too, but I swung Silverlight and cut his right hand off.

  I don’t know what the man was thinking. I don’t know to this day. I had a sword; he had no weapon at all, except himself. Did he think he’d frighten me with his bluster? Did he think I’d flee in terror? I wouldn’t have picked a fight with him, but neither would I run.

  Still, he kept coming, roaring, dripping blood. I promptly removed his other hand for him, then his cock and balls, finally drawing him out into the street so he wouldn’t make a mess all over the floor.

  When he fell at my feet, I cut his head off.

  That was a long time ago and apparently the catalyst for my capture at Marilian. I couldn’t have known that someone, somewhere, would hear of it and want to test me. To remove me from the world.