Dark Skies

by Danielle L. Jensen

  But she wasn’t through.

  As Killian watched on, Malahi took off her heavy cloak and gloves, handing them off. Then her jewelry: gold bracelets, earrings, hairpins, and a necklace that alone could purchase a city block. She handed them to the people, saying always the same thing: “Share with those in need.”

  Her boots followed; then she turned to him. “Unbutton my dress.”

  He silently obeyed, unfastening the tiny gold buttons that ran down her back, helping her step out of the heavy velvet gown, which she gave to a woman with three children clinging to her legs.

  Malahi stood before her people dressed only in a silk slip, the falling rain soaking her loose hair. Then with hundreds of her people watching, she caught hold of the hem and lifted it over her head so that she stood before them in nothing at all.

  “You are my people,” she shouted, handing over the garment to a woman. “And all that I have to give is yours.”

  And without another word, she stepped down from the fountain, the parting crowd dropping into bows and curtsies as their princess walked back through the streets. Naked. But very much a queen.

  36

  LYDIA

  The house was quiet as Lydia lay on her back in her narrow bed, listening to Lena’s steady breathing and Gwen’s much louder snores. Exhaustion pressed her against the mattress like lead weights, but for hours sleep had eluded her. The balance of the day had been uneventful, but she’d been unable to shake the frantic tension of the morning’s events, visions of the knife flashing, of Gwen falling bloodied beneath the crowd, of her own gods-damned uselessness dancing across her thoughts.

  Rolling over in bed for the hundredth time, she tried to calm the escalating beat of her heart, the panic that made her feel as though she would vomit. When the clock downstairs chimed the midnight hour, Lydia climbed out of bed and roamed down the hallway to Killian’s study, having seen a glimpse of bookshelves in passing. With the exception of a dog sleeping on a chair, the room was empty.

  Trailing a finger along the spines, she examined the titles, which showed topics from history to philosophy to law to poetry. None of which she could imagine Killian reading and none of which were what she was looking for. Dropping to her knees, she examined the bottom row, smiling when she lighted upon The Art of Swordsmanship. Plucking out the book, she sat on the floor rather than shooing away the dog.

  The book was light on words and heavy on diagrams, and she swiftly read through the contents, then set it aside to retrieve another volume on a similar topic. She read until her eyes burned, and it wasn’t until she felt a hand shaking her shoulder that she realized she’d fallen asleep.

  Alarmed at being caught, she jerked upright, her forehead collided with something hard.

  “Gods-damn it, woman.” Killian crouched next to her, rubbing his chin. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Sorry,” she muttered, acutely aware that she was sitting on the floor of his study wearing nothing more than a cotton nightdress. “I was … Why do you smell so awful?”

  “Because I was in the sewers. It’s the only way to traverse the city after dark, but unfortunately, the stink clings.” Pulling off his coat, he tossed it across the room. Then he picked up one of the volumes, frowning at the title before tossing it aside with equal carelessness. “This is useless. You can’t learn how to fight from a book.”

  “I beg to differ.” She carefully shelved the rest of the books before he could damage them as well. “You can learn anything from the right book. And for someone with such a large collection, one would think you’d hold them in more esteem.”

  Killian eyed the shelves while he pushed up the sleeves of his shirt. The knuckles of his hands were scraped and bleeding, and she wondered what he’d been doing. “I’ve always considered them more decorative than useful, frankly.”

  Lydia crossed her arms, trying to focus on his view of literature rather than the way the candlelight illuminated the muscles of his bare forearms. Or on how his dark hair fell over eyes bright with humor. She wished a clever retort would come to mind, but her brain seemed intent on failing her.

  Killian was quiet for a long moment; then he ran a finger down the spines of the books. “Why would a scholar like you be interested in books full of pictures of men waving sticks?”

  “Why do you think I’m a scholar?”

  The corner of his mouth turned up. “You shelved my books in alphabetical order, which I doubt was the state in which you found them.”

  There was nothing to be gained or lost in denying it, so she nodded. “Incompetence irritates me, particularly my own. I hoped the books would help rectify my limitations.”

  “I believe you,” he said. “Only that’s not the reason you’re sitting here in a nightdress when you should be asleep.” His attention didn’t stir from her face, but she flushed nonetheless.

  “I didn’t want to wake Gwen or Lena,” she said, then sighed, the excuse weak even in her own ears. “It concerns me that the other girls might depend on me to fight again and that I’ll fail them.” Like she’d failed Gwen today. Like she’d failed Teriana. Like she’d failed herself.

  “Today wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I had a bad feeling about Malahi going into the city, but…” Shaking his head, he sat on the floor and rested his elbows on his knees.

  “Gwen could’ve died because I didn’t know what I was doing.” She stared at the floorboards between them. Her hair fell forward to pool in her lap as she thought of how very different things would be if she’d been able to fight off Spurius when he’d chased her down, stopping her from warning Teriana. Or if she’d been able to hold off Marcus long enough for help to arrive. Or if she’d been as good with her fists as the women who’d attacked her in the shelter and stolen her coin. “I’m tired of being helpless.”

  Of being a victim.

  She clenched her hands into fists, her nails digging into the palms of her hands. Her body was so tense it hurt, each breath a struggle, though there was no reason for it. Her pulse roared in her ears, and all she wanted was to escape, to find some form of release from the fear that had hung over her from the moment Lucius had captured Teriana’s ship. A violent shiver took hold of her, though she wasn’t cold, and she clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.

  Then Killian’s fingers, warm and rough with callus, cupped her cheek, and she exhaled in a loud whoosh, leaning against his hand though she knew she should not.

  “Breathe,” he instructed, and she drew in a ragged mouthful of air. “You aren’t helpless. You saved my life from the deimos, and I’m fairly capable with a sword.”

  “Luck.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” His thumb traced over her cheekbone. “You aren’t helpless. Your presence gives the other girls a fighting chance if one of the corrupted comes for Malahi, because without you, there is no warning. And without a warning, they don’t have a chance. You’re risking your life for them. There’s a word for that, but it isn’t luck.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head until his fingers caught in her hair, his other hand rising to hold her face steady. “Lydia, look at me.”

  “I’m tired of being afraid,” she whispered, refusing his request. “Do you even know what fear feels like? What helplessness feels like?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Yes. Every day. Every minute.”

  Something about his tone—the truthfulness of it—steadied her heart, and she opened her eyes. His were dark, all humor gone. Then he looked away, shaking his head. “Everyone knows. Everyone in the gods-damned kingdom knows, but not you. Not the girl from the far side of the world.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This war is my fault,” he said. “My mistakes were what allowed Rufina and her army to invade Mudamora.”

  Lydia listened in rapt silence as he explained what had happened at the wall. The death of the corrupted woman. The subsequent attack from the rear that he saw coming a heartbeat too late.

  His la
st conversation with his father.

  “I’ve never told anyone that part,” he said, then shifted his weight to extract the sword belted at his waist. “This was his.”

  It was an infinitely finer blade than the one Lydia had been given—and had subsequently lost—the steel engraved with a cursive script she couldn’t make out. The grip was well worn, but a large sapphire was set into the pommel and it glittered in the candlelight. “I think it’s the only thing I own that I couldn’t bear to lose.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “It was a gift from King Derrick Falorn. They were friends, and my father was his sworn sword. I was—” He broke off, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Neither of them spoke, but there was something comforting in the silence. As if what was conveyed unspoken was more powerful than words.

  Finally, he said, “I know Teriana gave you a copy of Treatise, so you know that the strength of the Six depends on the belief of the people. It’s not so much belief in their existence, but the belief that the Six will protect their faithful followers. And that protection most visibly comes through those the gods mark, which means that our actions impact the strength of belief.”

  Our. Because she was marked, too.

  He rubbed his chin, eyes distant. “If the Marked aren’t where they are needed, it damages faith. If they don’t do their duty to the people, it damages faith. If they fail to protect the people, it damages faith. And that is what gives the Corrupter his power.”

  It was an incredible burden to bear—more than she’d even realized.

  “The only way I can redeem myself is by winning this war. Driving Rufina back. But Serrick forbids me to fight, because he believes Tremon and the rest of the Six have turned their back on me.” He sighed. “I am terrified of what is to come. And I feel helpless to stop it.”

  She understood that weight of guilt. To have made a mistake that cost those one loved so very much. That it hadn’t been intentional didn’t matter—the fault was still there. And to be denied the chance at atonement … That she understood equally as well. Reaching out, she took his hand, her heart skipping as her mark took hold. “Hegeria marked me to save your life because Tremon asked her to, Killian. But maybe it wasn’t just to save your life—maybe it was also to bolster your faith.”

  “My faith’s just fine.”

  She tightened her fingers. “I’m not talking about your faith in them. I’m talking about your faith in the Marked.” In yourself.

  A draft gusted through the room, and the candle flickered, sending shadows dancing across the wall. The sensation of being observed made Lydia shiver.

  The corner of his mouth turned up and she knew he felt it, too. “They’re always watching. I’d like to tell you that you’ll get used to it, but I never have.” Then he gave a slight shake of his head. “I almost forgot the reason I came here tonight.”

  Reaching into his pocket, he extracted a silver chain with something dangling from it. Lydia’s eyes widened at the sight of her ring. “How did you…?”

  “Never mind that.” He lifted the chain over her head, the ring falling to hang between her breasts, still warm. “Remember who you’re fighting for.”

  Her father. Teriana. All of the Maarin who’d been captured. “I’m afraid I’ll fail them.”

  “What would ease that fear?”

  Always she’d tried to fight her battles with words, but some people refused to hear her voice. “I want to learn to fight.”

  He nodded slowly, then said, “I can’t turn you into a warrior in a few weeks. That’s something that takes months, years, even.”

  Her heart skipped. “But you’ll teach me?”

  “I will. Every night I can get away until Malahi sets sail. Meet me at the Calorian manor after your day is done tomorrow. Tell the others there’s a girl you fancy and that you’re meeting up with her in the city. They’ll understand—half of them are supporting lovers and family with this job.”

  He stood in one smooth motion before reaching down to extract one of the volumes from the shelves. “This one isn’t too bad.”

  And without another word, he disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.

  37

  KILLIAN

  Light was already growing in the sky by the time Killian made it back to the palace.

  He jumped down from the top of the wall and rolled, coming to his feet in time to see the door to the stables open. One of the boys who cared for the horses led out an agitated pair and turned them loose to graze the grounds, fattening them up for their eventual slaughter, which had been the fate of most of their fellows. Both galloped to the far side of the palace grounds. The boy disappeared inside; then a moment later a shout of dismay cut through the air.

  Skin prickling, Killian ran toward the large building. The light was dim inside, but he could hear Surly and Seahawk rustling uneasily about their stalls. And over the smell of horse and manure, his nose picked up the scent of blight.

  The stableboy stood with his back against the wall, his face drained of color, eyes fixed on what lay beyond in the stall opposite. The one belonging to Malahi’s mare.

  Swearing under his breath, Killian strode down the aisle and looked inside, barely keeping the contents of his stomach in check at what he saw.

  “She was fine last night, my lord,” the boy blurted out. “I swear it.”

  “This isn’t your fault.” Taking the boy by the shoulders, Killian examined his face. He and Malahi had cleaned the mare up in a spring prior to bringing her back in the city, but this boy was with these horses constantly. If he’d been infected … “Do you feel sick? Any symptoms at all?”

  The boy shook his head rapidly. “No, my lord.”

  Thank the Six. “Good. That changes, you come to me directly. Now I need you to run to Hegeria’s temple. Tell them I sent you and ask to speak with the Grand Master. Explain to him that we have a horse infected with blight. Tell him to come immediately.”

  The boy sprinted out of the stables.

  The other horses were turning circles in their stalls, ears pinned and eyes rolling, so Killian swiftly turned them out, all of them galloping to the opposite side of the grounds before turning to stare back in his direction. They knew.

  Then, taking a deep breath, Killian went back to the mare’s stall. She lay on her side in the straw, flanks rising and falling rapidly, nostrils fluttering as she struggled. Her eyes were glazed with pain, but as he knelt in the straw to stroke her cheek they focused on him. She’d been with him since she was a yearling. He’d trained her, taken her with him nearly everywhere he’d been for the last three years. She’d been one of the few horses to survive the battle at the wall, having carried one of his men in their wild dash to safety despite having been injured herself. She was one of the best mounts he’d ever owned, and it had only been because Malahi had fallen in love with the mare that he’d gifted her to the Princess.

  And now she was dying.

  Steeling himself, Killian forced his eyes away from the mare’s face to her forelegs. Her hair had fallen out, the skin beneath a strange grey. Pulsing black veins rose up her shoulders, the same way the blight crawled across the landscape, but a thousand times more sickening, because there were places where the skin had ruptured, black sludge dripping into the straw. And the smell … never in all his life had he experienced anything like it.

  Heels clicked against the stone of the stable aisle, the measure deeply familiar. Scrambling to his feet, Killian stepped outside the stall, pulling the door shut behind him and stepping in Malahi’s path. She’d clearly dressed in a hurry, her hair still tangled from sleep. “It’s bad, Malahi. You don’t want to see this. I’ll take care of it.”

  “She’s my horse.”

  “All the more reason for you not to see.”

  Malahi’s face was blanched, but she shook her head. “Let me pass.”

  Wishing he could force her to see reason but knowing it wasn’t right to do so, Killian op
ened the stall door.

  Malahi’s shoulders rose and fell as she took a deep breath; then she rounded the corner and stepped inside. A soft gasp of horror tore from her lips and she swayed. Killian reached forward to steady her, but she only brushed his hands away, going to kneel next to the mare’s head.

  The night guard had followed Malahi in, and even Sonia’s russet skin seemed waxy and pale. “All of you out,” he ordered. “You too, Bercola. I’ve sent the stableboy for Quindor. If he isn’t here in the next half hour, you fetch him yourself. No need to prolong this.” Then he went inside the stall.

  Malahi was stroking the mare’s cheek, murmuring soothing words.

  “She needs to be put down.” He knelt next to her. “I’ve sent for Quindor. If the blight can do this to a horse, it can do it to a person as well. The healers need to be prepared. But—”

  “I know,” Malahi interrupted. “I know he won’t expend the energy to heal a horse.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  A tear dribbled down her face. “It’s my fault. If I’d been paying attention…”

  “I brought you out there.” And he was the one who was supposed to have been protecting her.

  Soft footfalls echoed through the stables, and a heartbeat later Quindor appeared in the entrance to the stall. His brow furrowed at the sight of the horse, and he gave the faintest shake of his head. “How did this happen?”

  Killian cleared his throat. “We had the horses out for a run. She leapt a fence and landed in a ditch filled with blight. We got her out, but she was covered in it.”

  The Grand Master knelt next to the horse, his hand resting on her neck, eyes unfocused and yet somehow intent. Then he pointed at her forelegs. “She was injured?”

  Killian nodded. “Scraped up her forelegs getting out.” Then he looked at his own hands, which had been nicked and scraped in the same ordeal. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re marked, Lord Calorian,” the Grand Master replied. “I think you are not a good test case.” Then his gaze shifted to Malahi. “What of you, my lady? You were there as well, yes?”