A Curse So Dark and Lonely

by Brigid Kemmerer

  That earns me a smattering of applause. Harper’s eyes are wide. “Way to keep the pressure down.”

  I smile. “A child could hit the target at this distance.” I hold out the bow and another arrow. “Give it a try.”

  She takes the bow and arrow, then a long, slow breath. Her eyes center on the bull’s-eye. She finds focus so easily. The nock of the arrow lands on the string like she’s been shooting all her life, and she raises her arm to put it along the bow.

  She’s so confident about it that I nearly miss the fact that she’s resting the arrow on her fingers instead of the bow shelf. I step behind her and close my fingers over her drawing arm before she can let go.

  “Was I doing it wrong?” she says.

  “If you want to shear the fingers off your hand, you were doing it exactly right.” I adjust the placement of the arrow, matching my stance to hers. My arm rests below her forearm, my fingers closing around hers to hold the bow. “Here. Touch your mouth with the string.”

  When her fingers brush her lip, mine do as well. Her body is warm and close in the circle of my arms. The crowd behind us has melted away, and the moment centers on this one task. “Whenever you’re ready,” I say softly, “release the string.”

  Her fingers release. The string snaps, and the arrow goes flying.

  It buries itself in the upper-left quadrant of the target. The crowd applauds again.

  She turns to me and smiles. “I did it! I like this better than knives. Will you show me again?”

  I find it amusing that she keeps asking, as if I would not do this a thousand more times. She seizes another arrow and lines it up on the bow, more sure this time. I lift her elbow to straighten her aim.

  She hits closer to the bull’s-eye this time. Her eyes are bright, and she’s a little breathless. “Again?”

  “Of course.” I would give anything to touch her face again. Her chin, the soft curve of her lip. I settle for gently straightening her aim.

  She hits the target again and smiles up at me. “I love this. Again?”

  “As many as you like, my lady.”

  When she turns to shoot, she shifts closer to me. Whether by accident or intent, I am not sure, but I can feel her warmth. When I place my hand on her arm, I leave it there.

  She does not pull away. Maybe fate has finally found me worthy of mercy.

  Just as I have the thought, a weight slams into my midsection, and I’m thrown against the side of the bowyer’s stall.

  And then I hear Harper scream.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  HARPER

  An arm encircles my waist and I can’t move. I’m so stupid—at first I thought it was Rhen grabbing me, to adjust my stance somehow, and I probably lost a moment to fight. But from the corner of my eye, I see Rhen being slammed into the side of the stall.

  Hot breath singes my ear, and the heavy weight of a man is at my back. The arm around my waist pulls tight, lifting me just off the ground—and blocking the dagger that Grey belted onto me. I struggle, but his grip turns painful. An arm wraps around my rib cage from behind, a fist pressing into my neck.

  “Be still, Princess,” a vaguely mocking voice says in my ear.

  Dozens of faces surround us, but I can’t see Rhen now. I can’t see Grey.

  “Kill their guards,” a man yells somewhere to my left. “Take the prince alive. Do what you want with the princess.”

  The bow is still clutched in my hand, and I whip it back over my shoulder. The man grunts in surprise, but redoubles his grip. His wrist presses into my throat. Hard. I can’t breathe. Spots flare in my vision.

  A thwick snaps right beside my head, and the hand at my neck drops away. I collapse into a pool of blue-and-white silk and lace. My knees crack into the cobblestones.

  There’s a man on the ground beside me. A knife sticks out of his eye. The other is open and staring and dead.

  I give a short scream, but the sound is lost in the mayhem of the crowd surrounding us. My eyes find another dead man. A knife juts out of his neck. Another lies five feet to my right, blood staining the front of his clothing from chest to thigh. I scramble backward on the stones.

  I finally find Rhen. He’s on his feet, his sword in his hand. His eyes are wary, trained behind me. Jamison is beside him. Blood runs from a sharp cut over his eye.

  No Grey. Where is Grey?

  “Harper,” says Rhen. “Are you all right?”

  Before I can answer, another man rushes from the crowd, a dagger clutched in each fist. He leaps at me, one blade outstretched. I duck and throw up an arm to protect myself, but that’s not going to stop a dagger.

  Grey steps from behind me. His sword is an arc of silver in the sunlight.

  The man loses his hand.

  A quick blow from Grey’s sword hilt sends him to the ground.

  Blood is suddenly everywhere. I can’t quite process it. I’m going to hyperventilate.

  The man can’t seem to process it either. He’s almost instantly ashen. He stares at the stump of his arm and starts screaming. Blood collects between the cobblestones.

  What did Grey say this morning? We take few chances.

  Chaos surrounds us, and I can’t tell if people are trying to swarm closer—or trying to escape. Maybe both. My breath roars in my ears, adrenaline coursing hard with every beat of my heart. I can’t look away from the splattered blood in front of me.

  Rhen steps forward to offer a hand and I take it. He pulls me to my feet and draws me against him.

  I want to bury my face in his chest. That might not be what a princess would do, but there’s blood in the air and gore on the cobblestones, and my brain wants to curl up and hide. But we’re surrounded. I have no idea whether this crowd is hostile or friendly or if we have any way to get free.

  Grey puts one booted foot on the man’s severed forearm and levels the point of his sword at the man’s throat. He must apply pressure, because the man’s high-pitched screams change to choked whimpers.

  Grey looks to Rhen, clearly waiting for an order.

  “Not yet,” Rhen says. He looks around at the crowd of people. “Anyone else?” he calls.

  His voice isn’t arrogant—it’s full of fury. A voice that says anyone else will be swiftly dealt with.

  The crowd seems to feel it, too. People move back, away from the carnage on the ground.

  Grey’s expression has no give to it now. This isn’t the man who charmed smiles out of children in the snow. This isn’t even the man who spoke passionately of honor and duty in the hallway. This is the lethal swordsman who kidnapped me. This is the scariest Grey of all.

  “He’s going to bleed to death,” I say to Rhen, my voice broken and small.

  “He has time.” Rhen glares down at the man. “He was going to kill you, my lady. Let him think on his fate.”

  The man’s face is white now, but he spits at Rhen. “You left us. Your family left us to that monster.”

  The metallic tang of his blood mixes with the scent of snow and fish in the air, turning my stomach. I was so cavalier in the inn, ordering Grey to show those soldiers I meant business. Every time something happens here, the stakes seem to grow larger.

  Your family left us to that monster.

  While I’m standing there staring at him with a dry mouth and trembling hands, the man is bleeding to death on the cobblestones.

  “Kill him,” Rhen says. “Let him be an example.”

  “No!” screams a woman from the crowd.

  Grey lifts his sword. I stumble away from Rhen and put a hand on his arm. “Wait.” My voice almost breaks again. “Wait.”

  Grey waits.

  “Don’t kill him.” My voice shakes with adrenaline, and I have to fight to get the words out. “Do you have a doctor here? A—a healer? He needs—he needs a tourniquet.”

  An older woman pushes through the people, but stops at the edge. Her face is red and tear-streaked. She must be the one who screamed. She gives a rough curtsy. “Your Highness. I can
bind his arm.”

  “Do it,” I say. Rhen’s hand is still locked on mine, but his fingers are like steel. I can’t look at him. I’m worried that his face will show that I’m making the wrong decisions here, but I can’t watch another man die in front of me.

  The woman takes a hesitant step forward, then glances at Grey.

  “Commander.” I have to clear my throat. My eyes feel damp. “Let her work.”

  He takes a step back. He does not sheathe his sword.

  The woman crouches beside the fallen man and pulls lengths of muslin from a satchel. She speaks to the man on the ground, and her voice shakes as much as mine. “Allin, Allin, why would you do such a thing?”

  His voice is rough and broken. “They will bring war … war to Silvermoon. For their own … for their own selfishness.”

  A loud murmur runs through the crowd.

  I flinch. The Queen of Syhl Shallow will bring war—a war I’m promising to fight with an invisible army.

  Rhen looks at the people again. “Silence!”

  Silence drops like a rock. Fear hangs in the air, more potent than even before. I can feel the uncertainty in the crowd. The man’s whimpers mix with the woman’s panicked breath.

  “I will not have more blood spilled in Silvermoon,” Rhen says. “You are my people and I have sworn to protect you.” He glances at me. “The Princess of Disi has sworn to protect you, and even today, shows mercy to a man who deserves none.”

  A low murmur passes through the crowd.

  “Silence!” Rhen calls again.

  They obey.

  He looks out at them. “You once swore fealty to my father. To me. I know you are afraid. I know the Queen of Syhl Shallow has begun an attack on Emberfall. I know you worry. I know you have been left to fend for yourselves for far too long.”

  Passion rings in every word. They’re listening.

  He takes a step forward. “I am here now. And I will fight for you. I will fight with you. I will give my life for you. My question for you is: Will you do the same for Silvermoon? For Emberfall?”

  Silence hangs for the longest moment.

  Rhen hits his chest and steps forward. “Will you do the same for me?”

  His people seemed frozen.

  But the woman crouched over Allin ties a last knot in her bandage, then straightens to kneel. “I will, Your Highness.”

  “No.” Allin groans. “Marna. No.”

  Marna puts a hand over her chest. Her voice shook before, but now her tone is clear and solid. “For the good of Emberfall.”

  A large older man with a full beard and a belly that hangs over his belt steps away from the crowd. He falls to a knee. “I will, Your Highness.”

  Another man, younger, his face pale and fixed on the carnage left in the circle. But his voice, too, is clear. “I will, Your Highness.”

  Slowly at first, and then with more speed, the remaining people in the marketplace fall to a knee. Their calls of “I will” turn deafening.

  Rhen raises his sword. “For the good of Emberfall!”

  “For the good of all!” they call.

  I stare at him. He’s turned the energy of the crowd from tension and doubt to loyalty. They would form an army and stand against this invading queen right now if he asked it. I can feel it.

  “Rise,” he says. “Claim the dead. Have your bailiff take this man into custody.”

  Then he sheathes his sword and turns to Marna. “The princess has decreed that this man should live. If you make a list of what you need to treat his injury, I will have it provided.”

  The woman looks a bit stunned. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “Who is he to you?” Rhen asks.

  “My brother.” Marna drags a shaking hand across one cheek. “The—the creature killed his daughter. Two years ago.”

  Beside me, Rhen goes still. “You have my sympathy.” He pauses. “You were the first to swear. Why is that?”

  The woman pushes a strand of gray hair behind her ear. “I remember the king’s visits to Silvermoon, Your Highness. He would not have let this man live.”

  Rhen glances at me. “The Princess of Disi allowed him to live.”

  “But—you allowed the choice.” Marna hesitates again, but then seems to steel her nerve. “We have long thought the royal family had abandoned Emberfall. If rumor is true, they fled to save themselves, leaving us all at the mercy of the creature. And now, at the mercy of Karis Luran.”

  Rhen frowns. “Yet still you swore to me.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” The woman bows her head. “You alone came back.”

  I want to go home.

  Or at least back to the castle.

  I’m screwed on either count. Rhen says we can’t leave. He doesn’t want to give the impression that we’re easily cowed.

  I am, though. I’m cowed.

  Every time I blink, I see Allin’s blood spilling across the cobblestones.

  But the worst was hearing Rhen say, “Kill him.”

  And watching Grey lift his arm.

  We’ve moved to the Commons now, an open area at the back of the market where food is cooked and sold. It’s busy, but without the press of bodies that crowded the aisles of the marketplace. The scents of beer and cooked meat fill the air, undercut with the warm sweetness of baked bread.

  Dusk has fallen, painting the sky with streaks of pink and yellow, bringing a chill back to the air. More barrels of fire have been placed near the tables. Strange faces flicker in the firelight. Everyone looks at me. It was mildly unsettling before. Now that I know people want us dead, it’s terrifying.

  The Grand Marshal and his Seneschal came to find us after the attack. They couldn’t stop apologizing, and insisted on adding a contingent of guards to back Grey and Jamison.

  Rhen declined. A further show of trust, he explained to me—though honestly I’d kind of stopped listening to him by that point. It’s all I can do to keep this mildly bored look plastered to my face.

  “My lady.”

  I blink and look up. Rhen’s been talking to me again. “I’m sorry, what?”

  His eyes are concerned. “Here. Sit. I will have some food brought.”

  “I don’t think I can eat anything.”

  “You have eaten nothing since this morning.”

  I keep my voice low. “If you think I can eat after what happened, you’re insane.”

  “Sit, then. The guardsmen need to eat, too.”

  That startles me into sitting. I hadn’t thought about Grey and Jamison.

  “I will return in a moment,” says Rhen. A hand brushes over my shoulder before he strides away, Jamison close by his side. I’m alone at a large stone table, sitting on a wide wooden bench. Grey stands close by, the firelight flickering off the polished buckles of his uniform.

  “Do you want to sit down?” I ask him.

  He glances at me, but only for the briefest moment. I expect his voice to be short, sharp, the way his mood feels, but his tone is low, quiet. “I should not.”

  I follow his gaze to where Rhen is speaking with a woman tending a spit. The woman laughs and curtsies, and a coin sparks in the light as Rhen hands it over.

  Grey’s quiet voice gives me the courage to ask him a question I’m not sure I want the answer to. “Do you think there will be another attack?”

  “We are sorely outnumbered. They very nearly got the best of us earlier. One more attacker and we might have had a different outcome.”

  I consider the thwick of his throwing knives, the way our attackers dropped on the stones. “You seemed to do okay.”

  “I am glad it seemed so. It should not have happened at all.” He nods toward where Rhen is turning away from the hearth, Jamison at his heels. “It is dangerous for us to be divided, even momentarily. Jamison is a soldier, not a guardsman. I forgot earlier. I will not forget again.”

  I turn those words over in my mind until I figure it out. Grey is mad at himself.

  Rhen has moved to another vendor. I watch m
ore coins change hands.

  “Did I do the wrong thing?” I say, and my voice is rough and quiet. “When Rhen told you to kill that man. Should I have let you do it?”

  He looks out at the people milling around the Commons, and for a long moment, I wonder if he won’t answer this either. Our relationship seems to tick forward like the hands of a clock, always changing in relation to each other.

  Eventually, Grey says, “You are merciful and kind. But kindness and mercy always find their limit, beyond which they turn to weakness and fear.”

  “Where’s the limit?” I say softly.

  His eyes find mine. “That answer is different for each of us.”

  Rhen returns, carrying two earthenware mugs. He sets one on the table in front of me. “If you will not eat,” he says, “please drink.”

  I hesitate, then wrap my hands around the mug. “Thanks.”

  He seems encouraged by this, then drops onto the bench across from me. “Food will be delivered soon.” He glances up at the soldier. “Jamison. Grey. Join us.”

  Behind him, Jamison moves forward and places the two handled steins he carries in one hand on the table as well, then swings a leg over the bench. He pushes one stein across the table, his expression easy. “Commander?”

  Grey remains next to me. From the corner of my eye, I see him give Jamison a look.

  The soldier falters, then begins to rise.

  “No,” says Rhen. “Sit.” He looks up at Grey. “That is an order.”

  Grey sits. He doesn’t touch the mug.

  “I believe we are winning over the people,” Rhen says. “I want them to know we are confident despite the attack. That they have our trust.” He looks at Grey. “Do you disagree, Commander?”

  Grey may be sitting at the table, but his eyes are still on the people surrounding us. “Allow me to answer once I make it out of Silvermoon without an arrow in my back.”

  “Look around. The Grand Marshal has dispatched his own guards anyway. Anyone would be foolish to make a move now.”