Then a hand latched on her arm, jerking her back so she landed on her bottom, her spectacles flying off into the foliage. Spurius stared down at her, his expression grim. “I’m sorry, Domina.”
She lashed out at him, trying to pull from his grip, but he only caught her other wrist, pinning her to the ground. Seconds later the rest of the household was on her. “She’s hysterical!” her father shouted. “She needs to be sedated!”
“No, I need to warn them!” She kicked and struggled, but Spurius’s grip was relentless. Someone took hold of her face and poured a foul-tasting liquid in her mouth. She spit it out, but they only did it again, pinching her nose so that she was forced to swallow.
The drug took immediate effect, her vision doubling. Still, she tried to crawl toward the gate. If she could just get a little bit closer. “Magnius,” she tried to scream, but it came out as a whisper. “Magnius, the Cel are coming for them. You have to warn Teriana. You have to warn…”
Spurius picked her up. Carried her toward the villa. It was possible Magnius had heard her, but even in her drugged state, Lydia knew it was wasted hope.
She had done too little, and she had done it far, far too late.
15
KILLIAN
The crystal dining room had vaulted ceilings from which hung three enormous crystal chandeliers that glittered with candlelight. The walls were papered in muted silver stripes, the floors a polished white oak imported from Katamarca. The tables were covered with silvery-white linen, the plates made of frosted glass, and the silverware polished to a shine. It made Killian feel as though he sat in the midst of a very balmy snowstorm, for Malahi insisted the twin fireplaces be kept roaring with flames.
He helped the Princess into her chair, then sat at her right, glancing over the primarily female guests seated around the large table, before scanning the room to ensure all the young women who formed Malahi’s bodyguard were where they should be.
Gwendolyn and Lena had been the first girls he’d hired, but once word spread that Killian Calorian was training young women to serve as Princess Malahi’s bodyguard more had followed. Farm girls and tavern wenches. Seamstresses and prostitutes. Merchants’ daughters and soldiers’ orphans. Most of those who came to him seeking employment Killian declined, for while they were fine fighters, they hadn’t triggered the sense of rightness he required to allow them into Malahi’s presence.
There were certain qualities he searched for. The protectiveness Gwen had exhibited when he’d seen her fight on the street. Or the defiance Lena had radiated staring out at him from behind her cell’s bars. Loyalty. Determination. Honesty. Intelligence. Devotion. Few had formal military training, but all he’d trust to fight at his back to protect Malahi’s life. And with Bercola taking to the task of training them like a fish to water, they were swiftly becoming a force to be reckoned with.
His right hand among them was Sonia, the young woman a former member of the Gamdeshian army as well as the former lover of General Kaira, the Sultan of Gamdesh’s marked daughter. It was the dissolution of that relationship that had sent Sonia fleeing north to Mudamora, though as Sonia was fond of telling Killian when she was deep in her cups, one couldn’t outrun heartbreak. Be that as it may, Kaira’s loss was his gain, for Sonia was one of the finest soldiers he’d ever come across, as well as a born leader. That she had a sharp tongue and wit to match had swiftly earned Malahi’s favor, which in turn had allowed Killian more freedom in his comings and goings.
A freedom he took more advantage of than he should.
Next to him, Malahi lifted a hand, calling silence to the room. “Let us give thanks to the Six and to the Marked who protect us in these dark hours.”
Killian dutifully made the sign of the Six against his chest, then picked up a glass of wine and drank deeply. The conversation grew in volume as glasses were drained, then bottles. Plates of food soon followed, the air filling with scents that made Killian’s stomach rumble: the tang of citrus dressings on salads, the spice of fried duck hearts, the savory waft of roasted beef. The table groaned beneath the weight of the food, all of it sailed in from the South at great expense.
We feast while the city starves.
The food he’d eaten abruptly felt heavy in Killian’s stomach, and he pushed away the plate in front of him.
“You should eat your fill,” Malahi said. “Shame for any of it to go to waste, all things considered.”
“It doesn’t go to waste. Your staff eats our scraps.” This was a bone of contention between them.
“Lord Calorian,” said Lady Helene Torrington from where she sat at his right, “I helped at the soup lines yesterday distributing food to the poor.”
She stared at him expectantly, but Killian was in no mood to give accolades to the pampered daughter of a High Lord who’d never had to ration anything in her life. As the silence between them stretched, Helene’s smile grew increasingly forced until she said, “It truly is as you say, my lord: the people suffer. I tasted the soup to ensure it was properly seasoned and”—she leaned closer to him—“it was awful. The worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“That’s because it’s made with rats.”
Her olive skin blanched, her dark eyes widening. “What?”
“You didn’t think it was beef, did you?”
“Killian,” Malahi hissed, but he ignored her.
“All the livestock in the city was slaughtered within a month of the invasion, my lady, and imports such as you see before you cost more than most earn in a year. What do you suppose the poor have been eating?”
“I—”
“When was the last time you saw a cat or a dog other than your own?” he demanded. “I have to keep my own dog locked up inside because he’d be roasting on a spit within moments of being let out the front door. And with the dogs and cats gone, they’ve moved on to the vermin. Pigeons. Mice. Rats. What do you suppose the poor will turn to when those have all been eaten?”
“Killian, enough!”
He turned to glare at Malahi. “What? Is the truth so hard for all of you to hear? Or is it only that you wished for me to applaud Lady Torrington for sparing an hour of her precious time to ladle soup, her effort surely making all the difference to our fair city?” The last he directed at the young woman in question.
Helene recoiled, her nostrils flaring with anger. “I didn’t cause any of this, Lord Calorian. For that we have you to blame. Every single Mudamorian who starves should be laid at your feet so that you never forget that it was you who let the enemy in.”
As if that knowledge didn’t haunt his every waking moment. “Noted,” he snapped, then shoved back his chair.
“Killian, sit down.” Malahi’s cheeks were flushed with anger. “Finish your dinner.”
He knew he should listen. Knew that he should curb his temper and play nice with his peers. Watch over Malahi like he was supposed to. But he found he couldn’t take another night of this. “I’m not hungry.”
Turning, he caught Sonia’s eye, and she gave a nod of understanding, and without another word Killian strode out of the room.
His boots made soft thuds against the floor as he strode through the halls, making his way to the kitchen, which was still in an uproar of activity when he entered. The head chef, Esme, jumped with a start at the sight of him. “My lord!” she said, fanning herself with a tea towel. “We weren’t expecting you until later, after Her Highness had retired for the night.”
“Thought I might give them something warm for once.”
“Oh, that is a fine idea, my lord! Especially on a cool night like this.” She cracked the towel at the heels of her assistants. “Well? Get him what he needs. Be quick about it, for once!”
Killian leaned against the counter watching the two young girls scurrying about, loading a sack full of what hadn’t been put on the table tonight. Then Esme approached, a steaming tart in one hand. She carefully wrapped it in her tea towel. “For your young friend. I know how fond he is of sweets.”
“Thank you.” He kissed the woman’s cheek, pretending not to hear the giggles of the kitchen girls. The heavy sack of food over one shoulder and the towel-wrapped tart held carefully in his free hand, Killian ventured out into the night.
* * *
It was long past curfew, and beyond the crash of the ocean against the cliffs the city seemed almost devoid of sound. Almost devoid of life. No one in his right mind would be out in the streets now, not with the deimos prowling the night skies.
But Killian had never been one to hide.
Easing out of a side door, he eyed the moon above him. The deimos were warier on well-lit nights, swiftly having grown wise to Killian’s aim with a bow, staying high and out of range unless something worthwhile lured them in. The cursed things were far too canny for his liking, and his skin crawled with apprehension as he skirted around the shadows of the nearly empty stables before sprinting over to the cover of the wall.
The palace was walled and gated from the rest of the city, a fortress within a fortress, and to that end it had a separate sewer system that drained directly into the sea. Ideal for keeping people out, but given the gates weren’t to be opened for any reason after sunset, the palace’s design was also damnably good at keeping most people in.
Killian was not most people.
Using a rope to tie both ends of the sack, he looped it over his shoulder, gripping the tea towel holding the pastry with his teeth so it wouldn’t be crushed. Then he dug his fingers into the narrow grooves between blocks of rock and climbed.
The muscles of his shoulders strained against the fabric of his coat, and he grimaced as a seam split. Reaching the top, he gripped the edge, keeping still within the shadows. The deimos had good eyesight, excellent hearing, and they had their hearts set on him.
Taking one final scan of the night sky, Killian flung the sack over the edge, then swiftly followed suit. Air whistled in his ears as he dropped the fifteen feet, rolling to lessen the impact of the fall, tea towel still clutched in his teeth.
A scream split the night sky, along with the flap of wings.
Snatching up the sack, Killian sprinted across the cobbled span of space between the palace wall and the city, eyes fixed on the opening in the ground ahead.
Fifteen paces.
Another scream.
Ten.
He could feel the damned things converging on him. Death on wings dropping from the sky.
Five.
The air around him stirred, and his skin prickled. Killian threw his legs forward into a slide, skidding across the cobbles even as a shape passed over his head. Twisting, he threw a knife at the shadow; then the ground fell out from underneath him.
He landed on his ass in a river of wet garbage and worse, the sack of food flopping down next to him.
“My Lord Calorian, are you quite certain that you’re marked?” a high-pitched voice inquired. “Because from my vantage, that dramatic entry of yours had all the grace and style of a sea lion flopping about on a beach.”
Finn sat on a ledge out of the worst of the filth, bright red coat buttoned up around his skinny frame, the stub of a candle clutched in one hand. Both his trousers and his boots had holes in them, and Killian wondered where the last pair he’d given him had walked off to. Finn’s dark hair was a cap of wild curls that was badly in need of a wash, as was the tawny skin of his face, which was dulled with a film of dirt. But his brown eyes were bright with good humor, none of the city’s plight ever seeming to touch him.
Climbing to his feet, Killian curbed the urge to rub his bruised backside and instead pulled the tea towel from between his teeth, handing it over. “Here. Should be still warm.”
Finn accepted the gift, holding the tart, which was miraculously still intact, up to the candlelight. “This is a thing of beauty, my lord. A true thing of beauty.” Then he took a bite, his eyes rolling up with delight as he slowly chewed. “Fit for a king.”
“A princess, at any rate.” Killian picked up the sack before the food inside got wet. “It was intended for her table.”
“Speaking of Her Highness’s table, what are you doing here so early? Dinner not up to your lofty standards?”
Killian snorted. “Didn’t care for the company.”
“Why would you when those with the true charm and wit are waiting for you in our fair city’s under-kingdom?”
“My thoughts exactly.” Killian gave a last upward glance, noting the shadows moving overhead. “Shall we?”
Together, they made their way through the maze of tunnels making up the sewer system, Finn’s nonstop prattle echoing off the walls as he regaled Killian with his various escapades. Killian wasn’t exactly certain how old Finn was, for the answer seemed to depend on who was doing the asking. He’d told Esme he was ten while staring up at her with wide, innocent eyes, but he’d told Killian that he was sixteen. Killian’s best guess was somewhere in the middle. Finn’s mother had been Gamdeshian, his father a Mudamorian sailor, and he’d told Killian that he’d been born in Revat, the capital of Gamdesh, providing enough detail about the city that it was likely the truth.
When his mother had died, his father had brought him back to Mudaire, where they had lived until the start of the war. Finn’s father had been conscripted and marched off to join the battle, leaving Finn with a distant relative who wanted nothing to do with another mouth to feed. Finn hadn’t heard from his father since.
A story all too common these days.
“Home sweet home,” Finn declared, and they stepped into a small chamber off the side of the main tunnel. At the center was a sewer grate that allowed in a fair bit of moonlight, and it reflected off the dozens of faces of the children huddled together in the small space. At the sight of him, their expressions brightened, some of them smiling and saying his name.
“A feast!” Finn shouted. “A feast for my subjects!”
The children extracted themselves from their nest of filthy blankets, forming a line as they’d been taught to do. Killian stepped back as Finn carefully dispersed the food, noting the ragged coughs and crusted eyes on several of them. Grand Master Quindor opened the healing temple for two hours each day to treat the public, but most of these children feared to come out of the tunnels, and it wasn’t the deimos that terrified them during the days.
There was a tiny girl in the line with long black hair tied in a loose braid. Finn handed her a piece of roasted beef, but she was coughing and shivering so hard, she could barely chew. Shrugging off his torn coat, Killian wrapped it around her shoulders, the fabric covering her from her neck to her bare feet.
“My lord, I’ll get your fine coat dirty,” she said, looking up at him. The moonlight caught in her upturned eyes. A northern girl.
“Don’t you worry about that,” he said. “The Princess gave me this coat, and you see, I’ve already ruined it.” He ran a finger along the split seam. “She’ll be angry if she sees it, so perhaps you might help me hide the evidence.”
She smiled, her teeth bright white. One dirty hand reached out of the folds of the coat to touch the jet and gold of his cuff links. “Is this your horse?”
His black war-horse was built like a brick shithouse, not at all like the delicate things Malahi had the jeweler design, but Killian nodded.
Malahi.
He’d been gone long enough, and she’d be wondering where he was, especially after how he’d left things at dinner. Leaning down, he said to Finn, “I should go.”
The words no sooner exited his lips than clouds passed over the moon, plunging the city into darkness. And with the darkness, the deimos descended. Shrieks filled the night sky, wings pounding the air, and on the cobbles above them hooves clattered. Several of the children started to cry, all of them scuttling to the edges of the chamber, hiding themselves in their nests of blankets. The little girl pressed against his leg, her bottom lip trembling as she watched a shadow pass over the grate above.
“They can’t get down here,” Killian said. “You�
��re safe.”
“But what if they can?” she asked. “What if they do?”
He met Finn’s gaze, but his friend only shrugged.
Exhaling a long breath, Killian said, “Well then, I suppose I’ll fight them off for you.”
“You can’t fight them if you’re not here.”
Malahi was already angry with him. If he stayed out all night, it would be twice as bad come morning. But the thought of leaving made him feel sick, so he said, “Then I suppose I’ll have to stay, fair lady.”
Killian ensconced himself against one wall, the little girl curling up against him for warmth. At Finn’s behest, he told story after story about his time in the North training with Dareena. Funny stories, like the time he got caught in one of the border traps and was stuck hanging upside down from a tree until the High Lady finally cut him down. Or of the time she’d decided his wrestling skills were lackluster and made him spend an afternoon in a muddy pen catching greased pigs.
The children started laughing and stopped flinching every time the deimos screamed overhead. His voice grew hoarse, but Killian kept talking, hearing their breathing deepen as they fell asleep. Only then did he stop, listening to the soft noises they made as they stirred in their blankets. Children who needed their parents. Needed their families. Needed proper homes. But most of them would never have that again.
Helene’s voice echoed through his thoughts: Every single Mudamorian who starves should be laid at your feet so that you never forget that it was you who let the enemy in.
She was right. It was his fault. Everything that had happened to these children was his fault.
The chamber grew brighter with the dawn light, and Killian’s hands balled into fists as the sun illuminated the faces around him. How many of them would die? His eyes burned and he rubbed at them before gently moving the girl onto a pile of blankets, her small form still wrapped in his coat. Pulling loose one of his cuff links, he pressed the black horse into her hand, then bent to shake Finn’s shoulder. “I have to go. I’ll be back again tonight.”
Dark Skies Page 11