The corpse twitched and both of them jumped, staring at the dead girl for a long moment. Malahi finally said, “He wouldn’t bother trying to stop us if he didn’t believe my plan would work.”
“He wouldn’t care if your plan worked or not if it didn’t serve his purpose to keep your father in power.”
Their eyes met, the gravity of Killian’s statement not lost on either of them.
“My father treats the Marked like slaves and he’s angered the Six. The Marked are meant to lead, not to be led. What greater confirmation of that truth do you need?”
Killian didn’t disagree, but there were less risky ways to achieve the same ends. “Cancel the ball and meet the High Lords in Serlania. Mudaire is too dangerous by far.”
“No. The people of Mudaire need to see that I haven’t abandoned them like everyone else. Besides, I’ll not be ruled by fear.”
“Just idiocy.”
Rising to her feet, she said loudly, “Remove the body. And consider allotting me more of your time, Lord Calorian. I would not like this to happen again.”
Without a backward glance, she strode from the room.
“Go with her,” Killian said to Bercola, and then to Quindor, “A word.”
The Grand Master waited until the room had cleared before snarling, “You mad fool! The King will hear of this.”
Killian toyed with a half-dozen choice remarks but settled on, “She’s alive. I consider that a win.”
“Luck.” Quindor shook his head sharply. “That wound was mortal. A lesser healer would have succumbed, and then you’d have three corpses on your hands.”
“Lesser healers don’t become Grand Masters,” Killian said, fighting the impulse to add, Besides, it’s about time you have a taste of what you expect of the healers you send to the battlefield.
Quindor’s face twisted, and he turned to leave.
“Wait.” Killian stepped into his path. “You knew what she was, that she was corrupted. How?”
The Grand Master hesitated, head turning to the corpse on the floor. “She had too much life in her.” Then he shook his head. “You’ll have to excuse me; I have a rogue healer to find. I trust you won’t mind me questioning your guardswomen. They might remember a detail you left out.”
“By all means,” Killian replied, knowing Quindor would search every residence Killian was associated with while he was at it. The same would go for all the ships leaving the harbor. No one would be able to board without putting a hand on whatever injured individual the temple had employed that day, and Hegeria’s mark had a mind of its own. Unless it was on the back of a good horse riding at a near straight gallop to reach Abenharrow before dark, smuggling a healer out of the city would be next to impossible. “Best of luck.”
The Grand Master shoved past Killian with surprising strength.
Killian let him go, his mind whirling as he carefully rolled the dead girl up in the ruined carpet, then lifted her in his arms. His own mark had warned him of the danger, but Quindor had known exactly what the threat was.
Hegeria’s temple was keeping secrets.
Which wasn’t surprising. Identifying corrupted was a skill that could be used, and the King already used them hard enough.
But was it also a skill Killian could use?
Ignoring the blood that had soaked through the carpet and was now seeping into the shoulder of his shirt, he considered the advantage of having a healer watching over Malahi. The trouble was, even if one could be spared, the tattoo on their foreheads made them easily identifiable and therefore useless for his purposes. He needed a healer whose mark was unknown, who hadn’t been branded by the temple. One who could watch over Malahi undetected.
And he knew just the girl.
There were no coincidences in this world. Not when the gods were involved.
24
LYDIA
Lydia sat on the floor of the warehouse that the Crown had transformed into a shelter, her knees pulled up to her chest and her face buried in her skirts. Bodies pressed against her on all sides, strangers leaning on each other not for support, but because there was no room to move. They’d been packed into the stone building as tight as they could fit, children sitting on mothers’ laps, and siblings wrapped around each other as comfort against the dark. Limbless soldiers sent back from the front lines wept in the darkness, haunted by nightmares that seemed to plague them sleeping or awake. The air felt thick and unbreathable from the smell of thousands of exhalations, and it was all Lydia could do to remain calm. To refrain from clawing her way over the sick and impoverished press of people to the doors and out into the wind and rain.
And the deimos.
Though the warehouse was stifling, Lydia shivered and wrapped her fingers in the wool of her dress. It’s safer in here, she told herself. Yet it didn’t feel safer. She felt like she was suffocating—like no matter how fast her breath came, not enough air reached her lungs. Her limbs were stiff from the forced immobility, but every time she shifted, it seemed her neighbors stole more of her space. There was no space allocated for a privy, and those who couldn’t hold it were forced to urinate where they sat. The ground was damp with weeks’ worth of filth, and she swore she could feel disease seeping into her skin. A few people had tallow candles lit, but rather than welcoming the faint bits of light, she worried what would happen if the filthy straw scattered across the floor caught fire.
Worse, in the darkness, she couldn’t help but see the misty flows seeping off those around her as time, illness, and starvation stole life from them. Many were dying; some would likely be dead by morning.
You could help them, her conscience whispered. You could save them.
But doing so would ensure she was caught. If that only cost her, it would be one thing, but too many lives depended on her returning to Celendor.
Guilt plagued her until exhaustion took over and she slipped into a sleep troubled with the vision of her skin crisping and blackening and the sounds of a thousand voices screaming, but none louder than her own.
Lydia jolted awake to the heat of a flame held in front of her face and fingers snatching at her dress, digging in her pockets. Blinded by the light, she lashed out at those around her, but her limbs felt numb and useless. “Let me go!” she shrieked, trying to move, trying to get away, but someone was standing on her skirts.
“It’s her,” a woman hissed. “I saw her in the market today. Check her pockets.”
They were robbing her.
Panicked, Lydia fought harder. She needed that coin—if they stole it from her, not only would she lose her best chance at making it home to help Teriana, she might well starve. Her fists connected with flesh, and the woman swore and pulled back. In a second, three more were on Lydia. She lost count of how many women were attacking, holding her face down in the filth while they pummeled her with fists and feet.
“Help!” she screamed. “Someone help me.”
No one would. The mass of refugees pressed away from the fight, a blur of faces in the dim light, watching.
“Here!” One of the hands digging in her pockets jerked out, and Lydia sobbed, knowing the fist contained all her silver coins. A boot stomped on her back, knocking the wind from her lungs, but they weren’t paying attention to her now. They were attacking one another.
Silver coins rained down around her, and then it seemed every soul in the warehouse descended at once, the sight of the silver igniting their desperation. People screamed and shouted, fights breaking out all over the floor. Her handful of silver had set off a riot, but there was nowhere to move.
Blood pounding, Lydia fought her way out from under the mass of women, the blows landing on her body barely registering through her panic to get away. All around her, people were being trampled, little children screaming for their mothers.
The faint light of the handful of candles went out, and the riot ended as soon as it started. The mass of people swirled and jostled, each individual trying to carve out new space. Lydia collapsed a
gainst the wall of the building, the stone blissfully cool against her battered face. Adrenaline continued to course through her veins as she listened for any signs the women would come after her for more, but it seemed she had been forgotten. All around her, she could hear the moans of the injured, the ragged breaths of the survivors, and the silence of the dead.
Lydia clutched the wall like a lost sailor holding tight to a bit of driftwood in the storm, feeling the life all these people were shedding drifting over her. Clinging to her. Becoming part of her. And as it did, her injuries healed, the sensation prickling and unnatural and awful. Thunder shook the building, and she welcomed each boom because it drowned out the sounds around her. With no sense of time, the night seemed to drag on and on, and she forced herself to concentrate on each measured breath she took.
“I will survive this,” she whispered. “I will find a way out of this city. I will find the Maarin, and I will make it home in time to help Teriana. In time to save my father. I will make Lucius Cassius pay for his crimes.” She repeated her goals like a mantra, using the words to drive away her fear and refusing to acknowledge that she had no idea how to make them happen. Because it didn’t matter.
“Whatever it takes,” she said as thunder shook the walls of the shelter. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
25
KILLIAN
Killian jerked awake, reaching for his sword and nearly falling off the side of the sofa.
Around the heavy velvet curtains, lightning flashed, thunder following straight on its heels, but in the room itself nothing stirred. Yet the anxiety racing through his chest didn’t dissipate, his pulse rivaling the storm with the way it throbbed in his ears.
Unsheathing his sword, Killian crossed the room, his feet sinking into the thick carpets as he approached the bed. Easing aside the curtain, he listened to Malahi’s steady breathing, a flash of lightning illuminating her face, blond hair spread out over her pillow. She stirred and Killian dropped the curtain so as not to disrupt her rest any further.
Rolling his shoulders, he retreated back to the sofa where he flopped down on his back, sword in easy reach. But no amount of twisting and turning made him comfortable enough to sleep, and with an annoyed sigh he dragged on his boots and made his way to the antechamber. Unbolting the door, he stepped out, nodding at the guards on duty. “Stay inside with her,” he said to Sonia. “Keep the door locked until I return.”
The Gamdeshian woman inclined her head. “Will you be long?”
“No.”
Leaving behind the Princess’s wing, he trotted down the servants’ staircase, making his way into the bowels of the palace, feeling the heaviness of grief hanging over the halls despite nearly all being abed. The servants had taken the death of the girl—whose name was Asha—badly, many of them unwilling to accept that she’d been marked by the Seventh, most especially her mother. Esme had been inconsolable. It had required both Lena and Gwen to restrain her, the woman screaming that her child was chosen by the Six and then cursing Killian as a murderer. Even now, her voice rang loud in his ears, drowning out the sound of his boots as he approached the palace dungeon.
It was empty, but the cell where he’d locked Asha’s corpse was surrounded by burning candles, melted wax pooling on the floor.
Resting his forehead against the bars, he stared at the shrouded corpse, guilt rising thick and sour in his gut. She was only a child.
Shoes scuffed against the floor, and turning, he found Esme standing by the entrance to the dungeon, her eyes swollen. Almost unrecognizable as the woman who snapped her dish towel at the heels of her assistants, coordinating night after night of elaborate feasts for Malahi and her court. He waited for the onslaught of words and accusations, but she only said, “Finn and his friends will be suffering a miserable night in this storm. The sewers will be raging.”
“It’s not the worst storm they’ve weathered.”
“Still.” Her throat convulsed as she swallowed, eyes fixed on the body. “It’s no way to live.”
Silence clung to the space between them without even the sound of thunder to dispel it.
“May I see her?”
Killian gave a slight shake of his head. “You don’t want to. She’s no longer … whole.”
Esme flinched, a single tear running down her cheek. “Please. I wish to say good-bye to my girl before—” A sob tore from her throat and she pressed a hand to her mouth.
Before she was entombed in rock. It was what was done with the corrupted. Rather than burning them, the bodies were entombed in mortar or rock in a hole seven feet deep, binding the soul and denying the Corrupter his due. An eternity in limbo.
Knowing he might have cause to regret it, Killian reached into his pocket and extracted the key to the cell. The oiled lock made no sound, nor did the hinges of the barred door as he swung them open.
Her shoes made soft pats against the stone as she entered the cell, hands reaching down to the shrouded form, hesitating over the dark stains marring the white fabric. He heard her take a deep breath; then she untucked the folds to reveal the girl beneath.
Killian didn’t want to see but forced himself to look anyway. To watch while the weeping woman kissed the cold grey skin of her daughter’s forehead before carefully tucking the shroud back in place. Then she turned back to him. “Asha was a good girl. She wouldn’t have chosen this. Couldn’t have. She was already—” The cook broke off, shaking her head. “It’s impossible.”
Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Killian debated his words before coughing to clear his throat. “I killed one of the corrupted before the battle for the wall began.” It was a story most everyone knew, but there were things that Killian had kept to himself. “Before she died, she seemed to have a moment of clarity. A moment … free from the Seventh’s hold. And she told me that she hadn’t been given a choice. That she didn’t want to be a monster. I don’t know if it’s any comfort or not, but Asha may not have walked this path entirely of her own volition.”
Far from easing his own mind, the notion that the Corrupter could force his mark upon anyone made his skin crawl. And yet if it were so easy, why were the corrupted so few in number? What held the Seventh in check?
“If Asha didn’t choose it, why does she deserve an eternity of punishment?” Esme’s eyes were full of a quiet plea. “Please don’t put her in the ground.”
It was law that he did so. To do otherwise bordered on blasphemy, and yet … A faint breeze blew through the dungeon, his skin tingling with the sense of being watched.
And of being measured.
“It’s late,” he said. “You should go.”
Esme looked as though she was considering arguing, but then her shoulders slumped and she nodded once before departing.
Waiting for the sound of her footfalls to diminish, Killian stooped next to the cot on which Asha lay, gathering her up and lifting her slight form. But as he did, a piece of paper drifted from beneath her to land on the floor.
Skin crawling, he set the girl down and retrieved the paper, unfolding it to reveal a message.
The weak will always be tempted by the promise of strength. Especially when that which has been their strength has proven itself weak.
R
Rufina. Anger rose in Killian’s chest, hot and wild, and he crunched the message into a ball before shoving it in one pocket. Lifting Asha, he carried her out of the cell and down the corridor to the room containing the trapdoor that led to the tunnels beneath the palace. With a torch in one hand, he balanced the girl on his shoulder, winding his way down until he could make out the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs.
The tunnel opened into a small chamber, at the far side of which was a barred opening leading to the sea. An escape route built by House Falorn when they’d constructed this palace generations ago. There were small boats resting against one of the walls, along with crates of supplies.
Placing the girl’s body in one of the boats, he used the jars of lamp oil in
the crate to soak her shroud. Then he unlocked the bars and pushed the boat down the carved stone steps onto the sea.
Clearing his throat, he shouted, “If you want her back, then take her!”
The roll of thunder from the storm grew quiet, the deluge of rain ceasing in the space of a heartbeat. The waves pushed against the boat and then fell still, the ocean smooth as glass.
Killian tossed the torch into the boat, watching as the flames took hold, then shoved the vessel hard. It drifted out into the ocean, a current taking hold of it and pulling it farther and farther from shore until all that Killian could see was the glow of flames.
“May the Six fight over the honor of holding your soul,” he said, and without another word he retreated into the palace.
26
LYDIA
“Girl-with-no-name?”
Lydia opened her eyes, struggling to orient herself.
“Hello?” A hand waved in front of her face, and she blinked. “You alive?”
Lydia focused on the news crier sitting in front of her, knees pulled up to his chest. What had he said his name was? She wracked her brain, her wits foggy and slow. Finn, that was it. “I’m alive.”
He squinted at her. “When was the last time you ate?”
“Dawn.” Though calling it eating was a stretch—she’d scavenged the refuse piles along with the other homeless, forcing herself to chew and swallow the scraps of rotting vegetables and rancid meat. Keeping it down had been another matter entirely.
Frowning, the boy pulled a heel of bread from his pocket. “Here.”
Lydia’s mouth instantly watered. “I can’t take that from you.”
“Sure you can,” he said. “Had my meal with a lord this morning—ate like the king I am, and there’s no way I can fit another bite down my gullet. See?” He lifted his shirt and puffed out his skinny belly. “Full up.”
No doubt he was telling another one of his fables, but the pinching pain in her stomach had no interest in selflessness. Taking the loaf, she tore into it, each mouthful utter bliss.
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