Dark Skies

by Danielle L. Jensen

  He gaped at her. “That isn’t what I meant!”

  Lydia wasn’t listening. Shoving him hard, she snatched up her skirts and ran, ignoring people’s curses as she pushed them aside. When she was far away and out of breath, she stopped, pressing her cheek against the stone of a building while she waited for her racing heart to slow.

  It was true that she was alone and could trust no one, but that didn’t mean her situation was hopeless. If she started looking for a room to rent now, she was certain something could be found before dark. Food could wait. A day of hunger wouldn’t kill her, but a night on the streets with the deimos would.

  23

  KILLIAN

  Killian took the steps two at a time, his boots thudding against the plush carpet of the staircase, his father’s parting words echoing through his thoughts.

  The god of war gave you the gifts needed to defend Mudamora, but what have you done but squander them?

  The servants moved out of his way as he passed, dropping into deep curtsies.

  This one time you had a chance to use your mark toward its intended purpose and you failed.

  Helene’s poodle bolted down the hallway, stopping to piss on a potted plant before continuing in his escape.

  Tremon chose poorly when he chose you.

  Killian had believed him. And he’d believed the King when he’d said that Killian’s failure was a result of the gods turning their backs on him.

  But Lydia had been telling the truth. The truth about where she came from. The truth about being marked last night to save his life. Which meant the gods hadn’t turned their backs on him just yet.

  And he wouldn’t turn his back on her.

  Even now, he had Finn and his friends searching the streets for Lydia, trusting that they’d move faster than Quindor’s lackeys, who’d only have the description the guards at the gate had provided. He also had them telling a false tale, hoping that the promise of a reward would have the populace of Mudaire dragging in every old woman in the city for the healers to test. For now, there wasn’t much else he could do.

  Gwen stood at the heavy door blocking off the wing belonging to the Princess.

  “Find the healer?” she asked, shoving her blond braid over one muscled shoulder.

  “No sign of her,” he lied, not because he didn’t trust Gwen, but because knowing the truth would only put her in danger.

  “I’m going to go out on a limb and say that’s unfortunate for you,” she said. “Here. This came first thing, but no one knew where you were.”

  She handed him a sealed letter, and Killian suppressed a sigh as he recognized Quindor’s spidery script. He cracked the wax, reading, We need to talk. Immediately. He should’ve known the Grand Master wouldn’t leave it alone. Killian tapped the letter against his trousers, briefly entertaining the idea of getting the meeting over with before rejecting the notion. If the Grand Master wanted to grill him, then he could damn well find Killian himself. “Get someone to go catch Helene’s dog,” he said, then knocked, waiting for Brin to open the inner bolt of the door.

  Malahi possessed the second level of the north wing, and the walls were decorated floor to ceiling with ornately framed watercolors, each alcove graced with a bust depicting one of the Six. Sun filtered in through skylights, winking off the crystal of the chandeliers hanging above and casting rainbows across the ivory walls. Through the open doors of the rooms he passed, balconies stretched over the sea, which was steely grey and frosted with whitecapped waves. There was not another soul in sight until he rounded the curved corridor. Two more guards, Sara and Felicity, stood outside a sitting room, and they saluted before swinging open the heavy door.

  “Lord Captain Calorian, Your Highness,” Sara announced, stepping out of his way to reveal a dozen ladies-in-waiting lounging across overstuffed sofas, their faces a study in boredom. Malahi sat in their midst, with Bercola across from her, both with playing cards in hand and stacks of coin on the table before them.

  “Your Highness.” He bowed. When he straightened, Malahi was already halfway across the room, heading toward the balcony.

  Helene cackled. “You’ve been measured and found lacking, Lord Calorian. Seems to be a common problem for you.”

  Killian cast a sideways glance at her. “Your poodle is making a break for it, Lady Torrington. He probably decided that being stuffed in a soup pot was a better fate than another hour listening to your voice.”

  She blanched and bolted from the room, and Killian followed Malahi outside.

  An icy wind flew in from the ocean, and with the afternoon sun already behind the palace, Malahi was shivering in the shade. Pulling off his coat, Killian draped it over her shoulders, then stared down the hundred-foot cliff on which they perched, watching the waves slam against the rocks below.

  “Learn your lesson yet?” Malahi asked, staring out to sea, toying absently with the hole in the elbow of his coat. “If not for that healer, you’d be dead and our plans would be in shambles.”

  If not for that healer, the deimos wouldn’t have caught him out in the open in the first place, but Killian decided admitting that part wouldn’t improve this conversation.

  “And then you had to let her go.” Malahi’s voice dripped with irritation. “You know assisting a rogue healer is a crime, yes? One punishable by hanging. Honestly, Killian, it sometimes feels like you’re trying to get yourself killed.”

  It was tempting to point out that he was committing the same crime by keeping Malahi’s secret, but instead he said, “I didn’t let her go; she escaped out of the window while I was talking to Bercola in the hallway. I’ve spent all day looking for her.”

  “Just how stupid do you think I am? Bercola comes in spouting drivel about how she didn’t get a good look at her, while your little network on the streets is apparently spreading word that she was an ancient crone, and you think I don’t see exactly what you’re doing?”

  He shrugged.

  “This is the problem with you, Killian! You only see the problem right in front of you, not the bigger picture. You might have saved her life by letting her go, but how many will die from injuries gained defending our kingdom that might otherwise have been saved? Sparing her won’t make a difference, just like delivering sacks of palace leftovers to the sewer children won’t make a difference.”

  Sewer children? His skin burned hot as his temper flared. “At least I’m doing something more than writing letters. You’re so focused on your big picture, which is really just your quest for the crown, that every damned person in Mudaire could die around you and you wouldn’t notice.”

  “Is that what you think?” Her knuckles turned white from her grip on the granite balustrade.

  “It’s what I know.”

  She dug into the pocket of her skirts and slammed something against his chest. “Perhaps this will change your mind.”

  “What is this?”

  “This is my excuse for gathering the High Lords in Mudaire.”

  Frowning at the invitation, he cracked the red wax sealing it, read, then swore before tossing the heavy paper over the balustrade.

  “Have you lost your mind?” he snapped. “You plan to throw a ball in the middle of a city full of starving civilians, on the edge of a war zone, with skies full of beasts hunting anything that moves?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “The ball is happening. I sent the invitations weeks ago, which you would know if you didn’t spend your nights wading around in the sewers.”

  “You’re plotting to overthrow your father, Malahi. Something a bit more subversive than a gods-damned ball would be ideal. The High Lords will never agree to it.”

  Reaching back into her pocket, she extracted a package of letters, handing them over. Killian flipped through them, recognizing the seals of seven houses, including his own: indigo wax stamped neatly with a galloping horse. Opening the folded paper, he read his brother’s elegant script.

  I am happy to accept your invitation, and I look forward to discussing
your proposition in more intimate circumstances.

  Killian made a face and handed the letters back.

  “They’re coming,” she said. “And they, unlike you, know that a party is a perfect cover for them to bring soldiers and supplies without raising my father’s suspicions.”

  “As soon as the King gets word, he’s going to order you to cancel it.”

  “He already knows and has applauded my genius. I’ve promised to conscript the soldiers the High Lords bring and send them to him the day after the party. Never mind that they’ll be riding behind you with the news that I am now queen.”

  Killian shook his head. “We haven’t anywhere close to the numbers required to provide adequate security. One corrupted finds its way into the palace and most of the twelve houses, plus countless smaller ones, could be wiped out in the space of the night. It would be far less risky to do it all in Serlania, then for me to return to Mudaire with those same soldiers.”

  “With how much time wasted? How many lives lost? This is the best route. And you have my word that I’ll sail south with the High Lords after the party. I’m not staying here without you to watch my back.”

  Everything she said was logical, but his gut told him this plan was a mistake. “It’s not the best route if everyone winds up dead.”

  “The High Lords will be arriving with a fleet of ships. And since the soldiers they bring with them won’t be returning, I intend for them to load their vessels with as many civilians as can be fit aboard. Now perhaps you might reconsider your comment about me doing nothing for the people of Mudaire, Lord Calorian.”

  Killian was spared having to say anything as the doors to the balcony opened and Bercola leaned outside. “Grand Master Quindor to see you, Your Highness.”

  Malahi pointed a finger up at Killian, muttering, “This conversation isn’t over,” before gesturing for him to follow her back inside, tossing his coat over the back of a chair. “And please take some time out of your busy schedule to purchase some more fitting attire. You look like you were raised by wolves.”

  The Grand Master of Hegeria’s temple was a man of middling years, tall and lean enough that his white robes adorned him about as well as they would a rake. His pale pinkish skin suggested he hailed from the central part of the kingdom, though Killian had no idea where the man had actually been born. A permanent frown marred the inked half circle marking him as a healer, and his overlarge green eyes immediately went to Killian. “Lord Calorian, did you not receive my note?”

  “Just now,” Killian said, extracting the crumpled paper from his pocket.

  Quindor’s jaw tightened. “A word in private, my lord.”

  Sighing, Killian joined the man in the corner of the room, bringing a drink and a tiny tea cake with him in the hope they would improve the conversation.

  “You do realize that time is of the essence if we are to find her,” Quindor said. “We’ve received conflicting descriptions of her appearance, which I hope you can clarify for us.”

  “She was old. Grey haired and hunchbacked. It was dark and the deimos bit half my shoulder off, so I wasn’t focused on getting a good look at her”—Killian drained his glass—“Grand Master.”

  His attention shifted as the door opened. A servant girl carrying a tray entered the room, her head lowered as she began gathering empty glasses.

  “Why a man in your situation would flaunt a royal decree is beyond my understanding,” Quindor retorted. “You should be hunting her down, not loitering about drinking, gambling, and”—his gaze fixed on Killian’s hand—“eating cake!”

  “Hunting down rogue healers isn’t my—” Killian broke off, his skin prickling even as he watched the color drain from Quindor’s face, his attention all for the serving girl only paces away from Malahi.

  “Corrupted!” the healer screamed, but Killian was already moving. He threw his heavy glass and it smashed against the girl’s head, but the blow barely stunned her. Turning, she revealed eyes that were pooled black, irises rimmed with fire. “You weren’t supposed to be here!”

  Jerking out his sword, Killian lunged toward the assassin, but the women in the room screamed and scattered, colliding with him. One of them flung her arms around his neck. “Help me!”

  “Move!” He lifted her out of the way even as Bercola swung her massive blade at the corrupted. The girl ducked under it with blinding speed, whirling to tackle Malahi, scattering coins and sending glassware crashing to the floor.

  No.

  Dodging courtiers, Killian reached for the corrupted to pull her off, but she skittered sideways, holding the Princess in the path of Killian’s sword like a shield.

  “Killian, help me!” Malahi’s voice shook, but her face remained young and unchanged, meaning the corrupted had yet to use her mark. The assassin had come here to kill Malahi but had expected to flee unchallenged. His presence changed that. She needed a hostage.

  The rest of the guards poured into the room, several of them carrying bows that they trained in the assassin’s direction.

  “Killing Her Highness will do you no good,” he said to the assassin, keeping pace with the pair as they backed against a wall. “Let her go and I’ll show you mercy.”

  “I don’t think so.” The corrupted girl was tiny, and Killian only caught glimpses of her livery around Malahi’s gown. One naked hand was pressed against the Princess’s throat. “Clear a path for me and I’ll spare her.”

  Killian’s mind raced through his options. If they attacked, she’d drain Malahi’s life before he could kill her, but if they let her go with Malahi as her hostage, the result would be the same. And catching one of the corrupted in the teeming mass of humanity filling the city would be next to impossible.

  “Tell them to clear the door!” The assassin’s voice was shrill. Desperate. Young.

  “Don’t do it.” The tears streaming down Malahi’s face did nothing to detract from the resolve in her voice. “She came to kill me. There is no chance of her leaving me alive.”

  Killian’s heart slowed, each beat loud in his ears. Thump-thump. His eyes went to the girls blocking the door, faces tight and weapons held at the ready. Thump-thump. To Quindor, half-hidden like a child behind a tapestry. Thump-thump. To the mirror in the opposite corner, its reflection revealing the assassin with her ear pressed against Malahi’s shoulder. She was watching him. “Don’t come any closer,” she hissed. “I’ll kill her; I swear it.” Thump-thump.

  The sword in his hand gleamed bright, the edge honed razor sharp. Thump-thump. It would slice through cleanly. Death would be quick.

  “I’m sorry for this, Malahi,” he said, and then he lunged.

  The point of the sword slid through Malahi’s shoulder like it was made from butter. Her eyes widened in shock, but before she could scream he jerked the blade out. “Quindor,” he shouted, catching the Princess as she fell.

  The assassin swayed, eyes staring blindly; then she dropped to the floor, blood running from one ear.

  Killian shoved Malahi at the Grand Master. “Help her.” Then he whirled back around, blade singing through the air as he brought it down hard, separating the corrupted’s head from her neck.

  Thump-thump.

  She was only a child. Killian stared at the lifeless face, blood soaking into the carpet beneath her corpse. Only a child. Swallowing the rising contents of his stomach, he turned to Quindor, who was kneeling next to Malahi’s prone form, his face withered and old. And angry. But the Princess’s chest rose and fell evenly, so whatever the Grand Master had to say could wait.

  “Felicity and Sara are dead.” Bercola stepped between Killian and Quindor, jerking her chin toward the open door. Two dried-up skeletal forms lay in the hallway like bodies of aged hags long dead, a draft catching at their grey locks.

  “How did she get past you?” he snarled at Gwen. “There’s a list of approved people who are allowed past those main doors, and the Seventh knows, she”—he pointed at the dead girl—“wasn’t on it.”

>   Gwen whispered something that he didn’t catch. “What?” he demanded.

  She lifted her chin. “Asha was on the list. She’s the daughter of the head chef—her family has served in the palace for generations.”

  “Shocking,” Quindor muttered, going to one of the chairs on the far side of the room and sitting while he recovered.

  Killian ignored the healer’s comment and walked over to kneel next to the corrupted’s corpse. He rolled the head faceup, peeling away the strands of bloody hair stuck to her skin. Recognition hit him like a punch to the gut. The darkness and flames had faded to reveal soft brown irises, the slack muscles no longer holding the wild hunger of those bearing the Corrupter’s mark.

  “I know you,” he murmured, brushing her lids closed. Except the girl he’d interviewed months ago had been shy, sweet, and popular among the other servants. A faithful follower of the Six. He knew her mother, Esme, well, the cook integral to his attempts to keep Mudaire’s orphans fed, and Killian’s stomach hollowed at the thought of informing her that her daughter was dead. And that he’d been the one to kill her.

  Malahi knelt next to him on unsteady legs, the bodice of her gown soaked with blood. “She was only recently marked,” she said, gently touching the girl’s cheek with seemingly no regard for the fact that the child had come to kill her.

  “A matter of days, I should think. Even if she was able to hide the changes in her eyes, the corrupted aren’t known for their self-control. There’d be bodies.” Killian sat back on his haunches, a sickening feeling filling him as he considered the deimos. The way they seemed to haunt his steps in particular. “The Seventh has his eyes on us,” he said under his breath. “First the deimos and now the corrupted.”

  Malahi nodded slowly. “It makes sense for them to hunt you, but why me? No one—” She broke off, eyes shifting to Quindor uneasily, then in a barely audible whisper said, “No one knows about my mark.”

  “If you think the Seventh doesn’t know, you’re a fool. I think he knows precisely what you’re up to, Highness.”