Dark Skies

by Danielle L. Jensen

  Once past them, she’d galloped hard, crossing the bridge where Killian would make his stand and then riding around the terrifying horde of the Derin army. It seemed impossible that he’d have a chance against a host that large.

  Which was why she couldn’t fail.

  Letting her reins go slack, Lydia allowed her tired horse to nibble at the browning grass, tucking her frozen fingers under the armpits of her coat as she considered the plan Malahi had given her.

  Lydia had returned to the palace soaking wet from her plunge, the guards at the palace gates allowing her back inside only by virtue of them believing her still Malahi’s bodyguard. Not caring about protocol, she’d entered through the main entrance, trudging upstairs and down the hallway until she found the door Gwen and Lena were guarding. They’d both gaped at the sight of her. “You did not,” Lena said. “That’s not even possible—”

  “Find Malahi,” Lydia had interrupted, unlatching the door and reentering. “Tell her I said I’ll deliver her message. But before you go, I want both of you to hear the truth from me.”

  A cough caught Lydia’s attention, and she twisted in her saddle to find two men on horseback with arrows leveled at her head.

  She stared at them.

  They stared at her.

  And because there was nothing else to say, she said, “I have a message from Her Highness, Princess Malahi, for His Majesty.” Slowly, because it seemed prudent, she extracted the letter and held it up. One of the scouts lowered his bow and rode closer, eyeing the seal before nodding. “We’ll take you to him.”

  Flanked by the pair, she rode down the slope and into the horde, which seemed to be setting down to camp for the night. Though why they were stopping when time was of the essence, she didn’t know. The soldiers all walked slowly, listlessly, as if they didn’t care, all of them dirty and malnourished. They looked like what they were: An army that was losing a war. An army without hope.

  Lydia and her escort approached an enormous white tent resplendent with banners of crimson and gold. The guards standing outside leaned heavily on their spears.

  “I’ll take your horse to the picket lines,” one scout said, and Lydia struggled to hide her dismay as her escape route, along with her sword, was led away.

  One of the guards checked her for weapons, and then a livery-clad servant escorted her inside the tent, through a series of antechambers, and into a high-ceilinged room lavish with plush carpets, overstuffed furniture, and a heavy map-inlaid table that must have required four men to lift.

  “A messenger from Mudaire, Your Majesty,” the servant said, bowing low. Lydia followed suit, then lifted her head to regard the man she’d been sent to murder.

  King Serrick Rowenes was a small, delicate man, with the same light brown skin as Malahi, his long blond hair braided in a single plait down his back. He wore heavy red robes, the collar embroidered with golden scorpions. His watery amber eyes burned with an intensity that made Lydia want to run from the tent and never look back. He nodded at her. “You bring word from my daughter?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Lydia’s gaze skipped to the tall healer standing behind the King. Like Lydia, she had northern features, but the healer’s were marked by age, the wrinkles around her slanted eyes deep, her long braid laced with grey. She regarded Lydia with obvious interest but said nothing. There was one other man present. He was older but dressed in armor, and there were sheaves of golden wheat gilded on his dented breastplate. High Lord Damashere.

  “Give it here then, girl.”

  Lydia jumped, then realized the King was asking for the letter. Hurrying forward, she handed it to him, averting her eyes from his searing gaze.

  Serrick broke the seal and scanned the contents. Lydia knew what it said—there’d been no chance of her delivering a message without reading the contents, so she’d lifted the seal with a hot knife on the journey. Within it, Malahi outlined the direness of the situation in Mudaire, begging her father to ride in all haste to the aid of the city. Though she obviously believed they were wasted words, or Lydia wouldn’t be here at all.

  His brow furrowed, the King set down the page and retrieved a sheet of paper from a lockbox sitting on the table. Referring to the page, he silently circled certain letters in Malahi’s message, and Lydia’s stomach dropped as she realized what he was doing. There was a code hidden in the message.

  She leaned forward, trying to read the coded message as the King transcribed it, but without her spectacles everything was blurry.

  The King held up the scrap of paper so that the healer could read it, and the woman’s eyes widened in surprise before furrowing into a frown. Then, to Lydia’s dismay, the King held the transcription over a candle until it caught fire, tossing it into a silver basin, Malahi’s original letter following suit.

  “Give the order to break camp in two hours,” the King said to High Lord Damashere. “We march to Abenharrow with all due haste.”

  “But the scouts tell us that the forces from Mudaire are successfully holding the ford,” the High Lord protested. “If we come up behind them, we can crush them and end this war today.”

  “And risk the ford falling while we are on the way to their aid,” the King snapped. “Once across, the Derin army will split their forces to hold us to this side of the ford, and we will have lost any chance of beating them to Abenharrow.”

  “But Mudaire—”

  “Mudaire is lost,” Serrick interrupted. “I’ll not risk the rest of Mudamora for the sake of the handful who willingly gave up their lives to hold that ford. The Six will take their souls and reward them for their sacrifice.”

  Killian was one of those souls. And not just him. The Gamdeshians who’d sailed north to assist Mudamora and had already suffered so much. The civilians who’d volunteered to fight to give their loved ones a chance to flee. Even the Mudamorian soldiers whose duty it was to defend that ford deserved more from their king. Lydia’s heart hardened as she stared at Serrick Rowenes. It was him who didn’t deserve to live.

  And it was clear High Lord Damashere agreed. “Your Majesty, with respect—”

  “Damashere, you overstep yourself. You’ve spent your lifetime counting shipments of grain. Who are you to contest my strategies?”

  “But—”

  The healer spoke, her voice raspy. And strangely familiar. “His Majesty was chosen by the gods for this task, Your Grace. When you question him, you question the Six.”

  The High Lord paled. “My apologies, Majesty. I let my sentiment overwhelm my good sense.”

  Serrick gave the man a withering glare. “As you so often do. Go give the order; we have no time to waste.” Then he turned his head back to Lydia. “You may go.”

  She was dismissed. Stomach hollowing, Lydia grasped about for a reason to remain. For time to do what she came for. For a plan that would see this monstrosity dead without costing her own life. But her mind came up blank.

  Backing away, she retreated into an antechamber and, not knowing what possessed her to do so, she ducked behind one of the dangling tapestries.

  Idiot! she silently screamed. What sort of plan is this? Do you think no one will notice that you never left?

  Only before she could duck back out, the air filled with voices and the smell of food, servants coming and going. To appear from behind a tapestry would invite more questions, so she stood her ground, knees trembling, knowing the longer she remained the more contested her exit would be, but not knowing what to do about it.

  Time passed. People came and went. Lydia did not move.

  She was ravenous and desperately had to relieve her bladder, but peeking under the edge of the tent canvas revealed a perimeter of guards, the ground illuminated by dozens of torches. There was no sneaking out.

  Darkness fell completely, the weather worsening, the wind shaking the tent. Lydia was almost glad of it, because it hid her uncontrollable shivers. Do not faint, she told herself. Don’t you dare.

  Consumed by her own discomfort,
it took her longer than it should have to notice that silence had fallen over the tent.

  Peering around the tapestry to ensure no one was there, Lydia sank to her knees, fighting to regain her bearings after standing still for so long. Blood roared in her ears, but gradually the nausea faded and she picked up the faint sound of snoring.

  This was her chance. He was alone. No one knew she was here.

  But with the opportunity came a thousand doubts she hadn’t had before about whether she was capable of murder. Calculated and cold-blooded. And the means by which she was supposed to do it … She remembered the feel of the corrupted’s life flooding into her in those dark tunnels beneath the palace. The pleasure of it. Like a drug. What would it do to her to take a life in its entirety? Would it make her corrupted herself?

  Easing aside the drape, Lydia peered inside. The King rested on his side beneath a heavy blanket, barely visible in the dim light. Unarmed. Unconscious. Helpless.

  It’s one life, she told herself. One life, and in exchange you will save so many. You’ll save Killian.

  She hesitated, swaying on her feet, palms damp with sweat. He was a terrible man and a terrible ruler; that much was true. He needed to be replaced, and while Lydia had no fondness for Malahi, surely she’d be a better choice. Especially with Killian at her side.

  The thought of it made her cringe, and Lydia took a step back, bumping against the desk, setting the lamp to rattling.

  Clenching her teeth, Lydia reached out to steady it, her eyes latching on the piece of paper illuminated by the flame.

  It was the cipher.

  You don’t have time for this, she silently told herself. You need to get this done and then figure a way out of this tent.

  Yet the page tempted her. What had Malahi written to her father that she hadn’t wanted anyone else to know?

  That she hadn’t wanted Lydia to know.

  Picking up a pen, she dipped it in a pot of ink and then drew a blank page in front of her. She needed to remember what Malahi had written exactly or this wouldn’t work. Even the smallest error would render the task fruitless. Closing her eyes, she envisioned Malahi’s letter, falling back into the moment when she’d crouched next to a tiny fire, reading and rereading the message before resealing it. The page came swimming into focus behind her eyelids, and she read the contents once more before opening her eyes and starting to write.

  The letter flowed swiftly onto the page in the Princess’s overly flowerily prose, a plea for her father to help the innocents, to not abandon his people. And when she’d finished, Lydia drew the cipher next to it, carefully circling the letters until she’d reached the end. Then she sat back, reading and rereading the message.

  Citizens evacuated to Abenharrow. March to them with all haste. Mudaire is lost.

  It was a lie. Mudaire was not evacuated, and with the Gamdeshian fleet burned and sunk, there had been little chance of it being so before the arrival of the Derin army. A lie that seemed to have no other purpose but to ensure that the Royal Army bypassed the ford, abandoning the soldiers there as well as the city they protected.

  But why? What could Malahi possibly gain from doing this when it risked so many lives?

  Think, Lydia, she screamed at herself. This girl is a politician. You know politicians. What is her end game?

  If Malahi saved Mudaire and its civilians after they’d been abandoned by the Royal Army, the people would support her rule. And if Killian defeated Rufina alone, it would certainly bolster the people’s faith in him. If they pulled it off, no one would question their reign, not when it would seem to be mandated by the gods themselves.

  Yet if that was her plan, why bother sending a message to her father lying about the evacuation of Mudaire? Why risk it when her father was already doing everything Malahi wanted him to?

  Lydia’s hands abruptly turned to ice as she understood.

  Malahi hadn’t just lied to her father; she’d lied to everyone.

  The King never intended to abandon Mudaire. At least, not until now. Malahi was gambling with the lives of everyone, and all to ensure her own rise to power was seen as mandated by the gods.

  Heart in her throat, Lydia entered the King’s sleeping quarters, approaching the divan. And though she was loath to do so, she put one hand on his bare wrist.

  It was warm, his life swirling around her fingertips.

  Take it.

  The urge to do so hit her with an indescribable intensity, as though she’d been deprived of water for days and a cold cup of the liquid sat before her. One sip wouldn’t be enough.

  One life wouldn’t be enough.

  Lydia recoiled from the compulsion, landing hard on her bottom and then scrambling backward.

  This was not who she was. Not what she was.

  All her life she had questioned her purpose. Her role. But in the weeks since she’d been marked, Lydia had discovered the answer to that question. She was a healer, and that meant preserving life at the risk of her own.

  Not taking it to save her own skin.

  Reaching out, she took hold of the King’s arm once more, but before she could do anything, hands latched on her shoulders and jerked her violently backward.

  She slammed against the carpet, gasping for breath as she looked up into the eyes of the King’s healer, inexplicable terror filling her chest.

  “What is the meaning of this?” The King had jerked upright from the commotion. “Why are you in here?”

  “Please, hear me out!” Lydia gasped, struggling against the healer’s strength. “You need to know. Malahi didn’t send me here to deliver a message—she sent me here to murder you.”

  63

  KILLIAN

  “You stay up here,” Killian instructed, balancing Finn on the saddle in front of him until the boy had clambered into the tree. “Climb up high so that no one can see you, then tie yourself to a branch in case you fall asleep. Keep that blanket wrapped around you so you don’t freeze.”

  “I’m not going to fall asleep.” Finn’s voice was sour, the boy not at all pleased that Killian was keeping him out of the fight.

  “Just do it.” Killian waited until his friend had complied. “And you stay put until this is over, all right? You wait a good long time after the Derin army has passed and then you follow the Tarn down to the coast. Don’t drink anything but rainwater, do you understand? Don’t eat anything but the supplies I’ve given you. And once you reach the coast, you use the coin in your pocket to book passage to Serlania, not to buy sweets.”

  “You’ve told me all this. Three times.”

  It was impossible to see in the dark, but Killian was quite certain Finn was glaring at him.

  “And none of it matters anyway, because you’re going to win.”

  Killian wasn’t going to bother arguing with him. “Take care of yourself, Finn.” Then he heeled his horse back toward the wall, knowing that time was short.

  The night was quiet with no wind, the snow falling steadily around them. His soldiers stomped their feet and kept their hands shoved deep in their pockets, a nervous edge to the air keeping all of them silent, necessary words spoken at a whisper. They’d long since ceased glancing skyward at the sound of the deimos passing back and forth, delivering soldiers behind the lines to attack when the moment was right.

  And there were sure to be corrupted among them this time.

  Killian rode the lines, his armor clicking with the motion of his horse. Waiting. Waiting. Then there was a shift in the air, and he knew it was time.

  Clearing his throat, he waited until all eyes were on him, then shouted, “Were I commanding a force of spineless cowards, I would stand before you and boldly sell you lies of our certain triumph. But the men and women I see are not weak, so instead I give you the truth.

  “Tonight we fight not for glory, for victory, or even for our own lives. We fight for those we’ve left at home. We bleed in the hope our families will be spared such a fate, that the gods will take our sacrifice and spar
e the lives of those we love most. Our dying cries will be but the first trumpets of a day that we will never see, but will be the first of many your children see without the dark shadow of war biting at their heels. Let us fight for that dawn, and all the dawns to come. Let us pay the price on behalf of those we leave behind and march toward the gods’ eternal embrace.”

  The roar of approval was almost enough to drown the sounds of men on the move, flowing down the western bank, faint splashes and muttered oaths echoing up as they waded through the Tarn.

  “Hold them on the other side as long as possible,” Killian said to Sonia. “Then kill as many as you can when they get through.”

  The woman nodded, seemingly unconcerned. “It’s been a privilege fighting for you, Lord Calorian.”

  “Likewise.” Reaching down, he clasped her arm. “May the gods fight long and hard over who gets the privilege of hosting your soul.”

  “Not too long, I hope,” Sonia replied. “I’m looking forward to some rest.”

  Laughing, Killian trotted to the rear line, eyeing the raised and fortified platforms holding half of his archers. Extracting his bow from the wrappings keeping it dry, he nocked an arrow, holding it at the ready.

  “The corrupted won’t come first,” he said, walking his horse behind the men and women, all of them tilting their heads to listen. “They’ll let us exhaust our supply of arrows on the unmarked soldiers; then they’ll move. Which is why half the archers will hold back. It’s up to the rest of you to keep the enemy off them. Once we’ve put the lot of them down, you’ll turn to reinforce the front. Then we’ll make those bastards pay for this ford in blood.”

  “Dark Horse, Dark Horse,” the men and women chanted, and it was picked up by the soldiers at the wall until the air shook with their voices, the stomp of their feet, the hammering of blades against shields. And Killian wondered, as he listened, when the moniker for his shame had turned into a symbol of his redemption.

  Holding up one hand, he silenced the line. “They’re coming.”