Dark Skies

by Danielle L. Jensen

  “That’s not true.” Killian bent to pick up his shirt, fiddling with one of the buttons as he added, “He was the sworn sword of Derrick Falorn—it was his duty to be at his side. And when Serrick took the throne, Father swearing to lead the Royal Army was what ended the civil war between the Twelve. What he wanted wasn’t a factor.”

  “Except he got exactly what he wanted. His horse and his sword and a tent. An army. You.” Hacken made a noise of irritation, then handed over the sword. “I don’t know why I still care. He’s ash on the wind.”

  “Then let it go. We’ve bigger problems.”

  “That we’ll all soon be ash on the wind?”

  “If you’re going to keep on with such morose topics, I’m going to need you to pour me a drink.”

  His older brother laughed, retrieving the bottle and pouring generous measures into both glasses before handing one to Killian. “To Father.”

  “To Father.” They clinked glasses and Killian drained the contents of his, setting it on the floor in favor of putting on his shirt.

  “Speaking of estates, Seldrid was in a frenzy over your recent purchase. That was quite a large sum of coin, Killian. And all to piss off Helene Torrington.”

  Killian ground his teeth, waiting for the inevitable reprimand.

  “I told Sel to let it slide—it isn’t as though this is a habit of yours. But”—Hacken paused, bending over to refill Killian’s glass—“I’d ask that you ease off on baiting Helene. I realize she’s a loathsome girl, but she’s also Torrington’s heir, and I’d rather not have to deal with a feud between our houses because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.”

  “Noted.”

  “Good. Now where is it?”

  Shit.

  Finished with his buttons, Killian picked up his glass and took a sip. “Where’s what?”

  “Gods, but you’re bloody annoying. The ring.”

  “In one of my pockets, probably.” A lie, because he knew exactly where it was—on a chain hanging around Lydia’s neck. Where it would remain.

  “You haven’t done something stupid like giving it away?”

  “Now to whom would I have given something like that?” Knowing Hacken was after more than just a bauble, Killian made his way onto the balcony, hoping the shrieks of the deimos over the city would throw his older brother off his game. Sitting on the balustrade, he watched with amusement as Hacken paused in the doorway, eyes shifting skyward.

  “Can they land here?”

  “Easily. And they have it in for me, so they might well try.” Killian eyed the sky. “They’re no fan of fire, so we’ll have a few dozen torches burning to ward them off the night of the party. Keep them from trying to eat Malahi’s guests.”

  Hacken muttered a few choice curses, then strode onto the balcony. “I’ll recompense you for the ring; just give it to me.”

  “What do you want it for?”

  Silence.

  “Let me be blunt,” Hacken said, his eyes still on the sky as he spoke. “I want that ring as part of my proposal to Malahi.”

  Killian choked on his mouthful of whiskey. “What?”

  “Don’t act the fool. You know that this is ultimately about marriage.” Hacken topped up his glass. “You know why all the High Lords are risking coming to Mudaire. Serrick will be Mudamora’s downfall, but trust me when I say that there is no consensus on which house should take the crown. And to start a civil war over the throne when we’re in the midst of one would be as damning as leaving the crown on Serrick’s head. So we’ll make Malahi our puppet queen and then orchestrate the shift of power to one of the other houses after you win this war for us.”

  “After I win it.” As if beating back the Derin army were going to be the easiest of all the obstacles facing them.

  “Yes. That is Malahi’s plan, isn’t it? Dareena at the head of the Royal Army would be the safer bet—she’s got a decade of experience on you and an intact reputation—but having the High Lady of House Falorn save our necks does not send quite the right message for a Rowenes girl with her eye on the crown. Whereas her sworn sword defeating Rufina and her Seventh-cursed army makes Malahi look good.”

  “She doesn’t care about such things.”

  Hacken gave him a pitying look. “Malahi cares, and that’s not a bad thing. Shows foresight, which is an important quality in a queen.”

  “Especially one you are of a mind to marry.”

  Hacken spread his arms. “You have to know that the choice of who Malahi will wed is purely political. Queens don’t wed for sentiment.”

  That wasn’t what bothered Killian. It was that Malahi deserved a hundred times better than a reptile like his brother.

  “You look upset.”

  There was a faint gleam in Hacken’s eye, one Killian had learned a long time ago meant that his brother was taking pleasure from his distress.

  Laughing, Killian drained his cup. “You mistake the source of my suffering, Hacken. I know Malahi’s plans, and I know what part I play in them. What troubles me is that you want to propose using a ring that Malahi watched me purchase.” Sliding off the balustrade, he slapped Hacken on the shoulder. “This, Brother, is why despite all your wealth and all your power and all your good looks, you never get the girl. And that makes me feel badly for you.”

  “Give me the ring, Killian. It’s not a request.”

  Walking backward to the doors leading inside, Killian held up his hands. “If you can find it, you’re welcome to it. But you’ll have to excuse me, Your Grace, because I’ve better things to do tonight than search my rooms for a shiny bit of rock.”

  Hacken glared at him, saying nothing, but as Killian made his way through the ballroom he had the sickening sense that this conversation wasn’t over. And when it resumed, it would be his brother who’d have the final word.

  45

  LYDIA

  Lydia’s skull thudded into the floor for what seemed like the hundredth time. Her eyes glazed, but only for an instant; then she blinked and twisted. She flipped Killian on his back, her knees on either side of him, one hand locked around his wrist and the other holding a silver butter knife to his throat.

  “Did you let me do that?” she demanded, leaning so that her face was only inches from his.

  Killian shook his head, but she only had a heartbeat to enjoy her victory before he had her shoulders once again pressed against the floor, butter knife spinning off into a corner. “Never let your guard down.”

  “You’re rather cheap with your praise, you know.” She met his gaze steadily.

  Letting go of her wrists, he eased up. “I’ll praise you when—”

  Lydia caught hold of the back of his head and pulled down and to her left, her back arching as she twisted. Killian cursed as his shoulders hit the floor. With her free arm, she swung, stopping her knuckles just shy of his nose. “Never let your guard down.”

  He grinned at her. “Well done.”

  He’d been training her almost every night since she’d joined the guard, and she could count on one hand the number of times he’d said those words. Every single time had felt like a triumph. Not against him, but against those who’d harmed her in the past. Those who’d try to harm her in the future. She grinned back, but it was all teeth.

  “Victory suits you,” he said, and something in his expression made her cheeks burn. Flustered, Lydia rose to her feet and crossed the ballroom to the table where a jug of water and two glasses sat. Filling one, she took a long drink. “One victory in a hundred fights isn’t very good,” she said, keeping her back to him. “Still means me dead or worse ninety-nine times.”

  “Ninety-nine times out of a hundred you won’t be fighting someone as good as me,” he replied. “And that one time that you are, your opponent is going to underestimate you just as I did now. You look weak, but you’re not. And a blow that would knock another woman senseless barely slows you down. You can take advantage of that and have a knife in the man’s ribs before he has even a hint of h
ow dangerous you are.”

  “Most of that is my mark,” she muttered, her elation already dissipated. “I won’t have that back in Celendor.”

  “Are you certain about that?”

  Lydia wasn’t certain. Just as she wasn’t certain anymore whether the loss of her mark would be a blessing or a curse, only that it was imminent. Tomorrow night was Malahi’s ball, and the next day the Princess and her retinue would sail for Serlania.

  But not Killian.

  He hadn’t said anything that would lead her to believe he wouldn’t be going south with the Princess, but she knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t abandon Mudaire and its people without a fight, which made his silence telling

  Regardless, tonight would be her last night alone with him, and that truth sat heavily in her stomach. Say something! a voice screamed inside of her head. But all the things she wanted to say to him were things that needed to remain unsaid, so Lydia stayed silent.

  “We should go,” he said. “We’ll both need our wits about us tomorrow night, and that’s not going to happen with no sleep.”

  “Do you believe something will happen?” she asked. “Do you believe the corrupted will attack?”

  “I do.” Picking up his sword, he belted it on. “And I want you to stay as clear of it as you can. Give the warning, but don’t engage. You need to get out of here alive.”

  She gave the slightest of nods, and Killian lifted his head and frowned. “I’m serious, Lydia. Remember, the whole point of you taking this job was that it was a way to get back to Teriana.”

  “I thought the point of me taking this job was to protect Malahi.”

  He looked away. “Things change.”

  Gods, but didn’t she know that. Remember who you are, Lydia silently berated herself. Remember what your goals are. Rescue Teriana. Avenge your father. Force justice upon Lucius. “I’ll stay out of the way.”

  “Good.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Let’s go.”

  Lydia followed him out into the darkness of night. It was cloudless, as it had been for days, rain a distant memory for the belabored city. Stars twinkled above them, the moon only a sliver of light. Perfect for deimos on the hunt, though none circled above.

  “Where are they?” she asked as he unlocked the gate, easing it open for her to exit before locking it again behind him.

  “Good question.”

  They walked across the road and dropped down into the sewer, but the second Lydia’s feet hit the tunnel floor the rank scent of rot slammed her in the face. “Gods,” she whispered. “That smells like—”

  “Blight.” Killian swore under his breath, then said, “We need to find where it’s coming from.”

  Together they made their way through the tunnels, Killian navigating without hesitation with his uncanny sense of direction. They passed several groups of children, and he asked them to try to find Finn before carrying on.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Toward the western part of the wall.”

  The smell grew stronger, bad enough that Lydia covered her mouth with her sleeve, breathing shallowly. They turned a corner and a faint glow appeared ahead, illuminating a slender figure. Beyond, the sewer was a dead end, but that wasn’t what stole Lydia’s attention: it was the blackness seeping through the cracks in the bricked-up wall.

  The figure holding the candle reached out with one hand as though to touch the blight and Killian shouted, “Finn, no!”

  The boy jumped, the candle nearly slipping from his hands as he whirled about. “Lord Calorian?”

  “Did you touch it? Did you get any of it on you?” Killian’s voice was frantic as he grabbed hold of the boy’s hands, searching them for blight.

  “Of course I didn’t.” Finn’s voice was indignant. “What sort of fool do you think I am? I was only having a closer look.”

  “I don’t want you going anywhere near it.”

  While the pair argued, Lydia took Finn’s candle and approached the wall. The blight wasn’t coming from above but from behind, seeming to be eating away at the mortar between the bricks.

  Lifting one foot, she nudged a brick with the toe of her boot. It gave easily, sliding backward into the wall. Then, with Lydia watching in horror, it slid forward again and kept going until it landed with a crack on the tunnel floor. “Shit,” she whispered right as Killian said, “What in the underworld was that?”

  Blight flowed through the hole the brick had left in the wall, a thick and viscous slime flooding down the walls and onto the tunnel floor.

  Lydia backed up rapidly, colliding with Killian, the three of them retreating as the blight followed them up the tunnel.

  “Finn, round up all the children you can and take them to the eastern half of the city,” Killian said. “As close as they can get to the harbor. Now run!”

  As the sounds of Finn’s boots echoed off into the distance, two more bricks pushed loose. Then another and another. The blight flooded out in great gouts, flowing down the tunnel like sewage.

  “We thought it had stopped its progress,” Killian said, shaking his head. “But it had only gone underground. It’s beneath the wall, destroying the foundation.”

  “How do we stop it?” Lydia demanded, backing away.

  “Get supplies down here. Shore it up.”

  “It’s the middle of the night!”

  “Do you think I don’t bloody well know that?”

  They retreated, step by step. Blight had poisoned Malahi’s horse, and Lydia had heard the warnings to avoid contact with the foul substance at all costs. And if they were to avoid contact … “Killian, is the only source of water in the city wells?”

  He stopped in his tracks. “Without rain, yes.”

  “What if it’s contaminated the water?”

  Grabbing her hand, he led her at a run until they reached an open sewer grate. “I’ll cover you against the deimos,” he said. “You check the well water.”

  Her skin crawling with the sense she was being watched, Lydia kept to the shadows of the building until she caught sight of one of the public fountains. With Killian’s bow nocked and his eyes on the sky, she knelt next to the basin. In the darkness, the water appeared black, but she knew that was an illusion.

  The stench of rot filling her nose, however, was undeniably reality.

  46

  KILLIAN

  Dawn saw the arrival of two things: utter panic among Mudaire’s civilians and the fleet of ships carrying Malahi’s esteemed party guests.

  All through the balance of the night and through the day, Killian had been out in the streets directing the migration of people away from the western quarter of the city where all the wells were, or soon would be, contaminated by blight. Malahi had ordered the doors to the houses of the High Lords be opened, and hundreds of terrified civilians were escorted into those polished manors. Finn’s army of children had been relocated to the Calorian manor, which Hacken had already arranged to have emptied of anything irreplaceable.

  But the blight spread swiftly, and with every passing hour the city lost another source of water as the rot crept toward the ocean. And with the skies devoid of clouds, the loss of the city’s well water would soon prove to be catastrophic.

  The ships carrying the High Lords and Ladies had been packed to the brims with soldiers and supplies. But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough when there were close to a hundred thousand civilians crammed within Mudaire’s walls.

  Not enough food.

  Not enough water.

  And only enough room for two thousand souls aboard the High Lords’ ships when they sailed south. Two thousand, out of a hundred thousand. As for the rest—

  “Thank you all for coming.” Malahi’s voice pulled Killian back into the moment, his eyes focusing on the men seated around the table, who were all watching the Princess with interest.

  Calorian. Torrington. Hernhold. Trian. Cavinbern. Pitolt. Nivin. The seven High Lords Malahi had set her eyes on as supporters,
both Falorn and Serchel having declined the invitation, Damashere and Keshmorn out of her reach given they rode at her father’s side.

  “Congratulations on your coming-of-age, Your Highness,” High Lord Pitolt said, the old man’s ruddy jowls shaking. “Seems just yesterday you were a wee bit of a thing. Still are, really. Short stock, the Rowenes clan. Could use a bit of height added to the bloodline, if I do say so myself. My son Rodern—”

  “Thank you for your well-wishes, Your Grace,” Malahi said, inclining her head. “But I think given the gravity of the situation, we should move straight to the purpose of us gathering together, which is not for a party. As you all—”

  “With respect, Highness…” Hacken rose, gesturing at Malahi to take a seat. “It pains me to remind you, but your presence here is a courtesy. A nod, if you will, to the important role you have played, and will continue to play, in the coming days and months. As is my brother’s.”

  His eyes flicked to Killian, and it was all Killian could do to not lift his hand in a universally insulting gesture. But getting himself kicked out of this meeting would be a mistake.

  “Of course.” Malahi’s voice was frigid, but she sat in her father’s chair, smoothing the silk of her skirts.

  “Thank you, Highness.” Resting his hands on the table, Hacken looked around the chamber, meeting the gaze of each of his fellows in turn. “Gentlemen. We all know why we’re here. Our Royal Army is being pushed back step by step, and with Serrick in command it won’t be long until Mudaire is lost. Until Mudamora is lost.”

  The High Lords all nodded and made noises of agreement.

  “And yet he refuses to see reason!” Hacken pounded a fist against the table. “This is no simple war between men. This is a war between the gods, and while the Seventh sends his champions to fight, ours languish. Dareena wasted in the North fighting bushmen and Killian reduced to teaching little girls to swing sticks! It’s no wonder our Royal Army falters—the Six must look at us as fools deserving of our fate!”