Daughter of Dusk

by Blackburne, Livia

  “Malikel’s reporting to the magistrate. Ilona’s doing what she can.”

  “Ilona’s one of our best,” Tristam said.

  Kyra nodded, staring at the empty space in front of her. The cold of the walls and floor seeped through her tunic, and she hugged her knees closer to keep warm.

  “Lord Agan has three sons,” said Tristam. “Santon’s the oldest, then Douglass. Dalton, the youngest, was in my cohort when we were squires. They’ve always had a reputation for causing trouble, getting into fights when the commanders weren’t looking.”

  “Ever been punished?” asked Kyra.

  “A few times.”

  Not enough to dissuade them from beating a child to near death. “I’ve been beaten before,” said Kyra. “Once a couple Red Shields wanted to take my coin for a fake bridge toll. I tried to run away, but I wasn’t fast enough. Things like that aren’t uncommon in the city.”

  Tristam shook his head in disgust. “Now that I spend more time in the Red Shield ranks, I see things. Soldiers abusing their power, extorting money from the citizens. There are a few commanders who almost certainly take bribes to look the other way. And the Council turns a blind eye. Rumors say that Willem is one of the worst offenders.”

  “Must be nice to have the city’s forces do your bidding.”

  Tristam didn’t reply. Kyra could hear Ilona’s soft footsteps in the patient room, the clank of mortar and pestle, the swish of pouring water.

  “I’m sorry about the ball,” Tristam suddenly said. “I reacted badly to what you said.”

  It took a moment for Kyra to follow Tristam’s words, but once she did, she met his eyes gratefully. His apology released a ball of tension inside her that she’d forgotten she was carrying.

  “I didn’t exactly bring it up in the best way,” she said.

  He met her gaze from across the hallway, eyes relaxing a little. “You’re just trying to think ahead, and really, it shouldn’t have fallen to you to bring it up. Though I hope you know that I’ve never seen you as…I mean, I would never see you as just a potential mistress.”

  “I know.”

  Ilona came out then, and both Kyra and Tristam stood to meet her. The healer moved as if her entire body were weighed down by stones.

  “Two broken ribs, a broken arm, a knock on the head, and many bruises. She’s bleeding in her abdomen as well,” she said. “I’ve given her herbs to sleep, and that will be the best for her right now. You and the little one should go home and rest. I’ll send word if anything changes.”

  Kyra rubbed her dry eyes and thanked Ilona. There was nothing more she could do.

  Idalee seemed better early the next morning. She still slept, thanks to one of Ilona’s concoctions, but Kyra imagined that some of her color had returned. The healer was already there when Kyra arrived, and Kyra wondered if Ilona had slept at all. Though perhaps Ilona was indeed tiring, because she finally allowed Kyra to help change the girl’s bandages. They had just finished when Tristam came through the door.

  “I thought I might find you here,” he said. “Malikel says to go see him when Idalee no longer requires your attention.” Tristam might have caught the hopeful cast of Kyra’s face, because he spoke again. “Don’t expect too much. I’m not sure how much even Malikel can do.”

  When Tristam and Kyra arrived at Malikel’s study, the Defense Minister motioned for them to sit down in front of his desk. He wore an expression that Kyra had only seen on him after the most frustrating of Council meetings, and Kyra’s heart sank.

  “I spoke with the magistrate,” he said. “He’s adamant that the evidence does not warrant a trial.”

  “Evidence? There were well over fifty witnesses,” said Kyra.

  “I did inform him of that. Regardless, the magistrate is not convinced.” Malikel’s eyes conveyed far more meaning than his words.

  “What can we do, then?” said Kyra. A knot of panic was forming in Kyra’s stomach, a looming inevitability that she refused to accept.

  “Willem is a powerful man. This particular magistrate is one of his favorites, as is Lord Agan. There may not be much we can do.”

  It was an expression of powerlessness that Kyra heard every day in the beggars’ sector, but she had never expected to hear it in the Defense Minister’s study. She glanced over at Tristam and, in growing disbelief, saw the resigned expression on his face as well.

  “You’re a member of the Council, Malikel,” she said. “Idalee was beaten in broad daylight.”

  “By some very well-connected young men,” said Tristam. He was speaking gently now, as if she were some madwoman who might go into fits. “It’s crazy and wrong, Kyra, but there’s a reason why they thought they could get away with it.”

  Kyra stared at Tristam, unable to wrap her mind around the fact that he agreed with Malikel. “There’s a lass on the brink of death and more people who could testify to this than could fit in the magistrate’s study. I don’t understand the difficulty.”

  Malikel and Tristam exchanged a glance, and the look of understanding that passed between them was the final straw. Kyra stood up so quickly that her chair toppled backward and clattered on the stone behind her. “Are we finished here?” She needed to leave before she did something she would regret. When Malikel didn’t respond, she stormed out.

  It was all she could do not to scream her frustration as she ran out into the courtyard below. She’d known it would be hard to get justice for Idalee, but somehow she’d allowed herself to hope that Malikel, at least, could help her. Are you really so surprised? Did you really think you could go up against three noblemen and bring them down in the courts? She’d been a fool to think anything would be different now that she was in the Palace. A gutter rat in fancy clothes was still a gutter rat. The sons of Lord Agan would go on with their lives as if this had never happened, while Idalee struggled to draw breath in Ilona’s patient room.

  Kyra headed for the Palace gate, unable even to look at the fatpurses she passed. Who were these people who lorded over the city and did what they wished? The wallhuggers are not your friends, and they never will be.

  She’d walked only a short distance when she noticed Tristam trailing her. She didn’t slow, but he caught up.

  “Are you content to let this go too?” she snapped.

  He took a while to answer. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice subdued. “I hate this as well. Malikel tried everything in his power.”

  “Tried what?” Kyra asked. “He’s a member of the Council. He’s not some beggar off the streets.” A servant coming down the pathway toward them stopped short at Kyra’s murderous gaze and stepped off the pathway to go around them.

  “Malikel is bound by the law,” said Tristam. “He cannot simply ignore the magistrate’s ruling and do as he wishes. But he’s been making changes. He’s been gathering support from other Council members who also hate the corruption, and together they’re starting to form a block of votes.”

  “I don’t want a lesson in politics. I want the men who did this to hang from the city walls.”

  Kyra froze. Standing near the pathway were Willem, Lord Agan’s three sons, and a man in black magistrate’s robes. They looked to be finishing a conversation. The magistrate left in the opposite direction, but Willem came toward them.

  “Kyra of Forge.” Willem’s voice was sharp as a raptor’s, and there was a hardness in his gaze. “Be careful you do not overstep your bounds.” He left without waiting for a reply. Kyra clenched her jaw until it hurt.

  Tristam opened his mouth to say something but stopped as Lord Agan’s sons approached. Santon’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, and Kyra’s fingers curled for her knife. Next to her, Tristam moved his hand closer to his scabbard.

  “Kyra of Forge, is it?” said Santon. “So you weren’t lying about being in Malikel’s service. Though I suppose it makes sense. More convenient for him than going to a brothel.”

  Kyra felt Tristam’s hand clamp around her wrist, and none too quickly. “
Watch your words, Santon,” he said. “You’re not untouchable.”

  “Perhaps you should follow your own advice, Red Shield.” Santon’s voice dripped with contempt. Tristam’s grip on Kyra remained firm as Santon and his brothers walked away.

  I could kill you in your sleep, Kyra thought to their retreating forms. I could slip right past your bodyguards and have you begging for mercy. Let’s see how cocky you can be when you don’t have Willem’s skirts to hide under.

  “Kyra.” Tristam still hadn’t let go of her. She tried to pull her arm away, but he didn’t budge. “Kyra, it’s not worth it.”

  “What’s not worth it? Idalee’s life?”

  “Doing something stupid because you’re angry,” he said. “Promise me you won’t go after them. Ending up under another death sentence will do you no good at all.”

  She stared at Santon and his brothers. They were still talking and laughing, their voices fading as they walked away. Kyra wrenched her arm from Tristam’s grip. “Funny that you say Malikel can’t walk in and do what he wishes,” she said. “Seems to me that if you know the right people and have enough coin, you can do exactly as you wish.”

  S I X

  Kyra lay awake that night and combed through her memories of James—not the most recent ones, where he’d betrayed her and tried to kill her, but their interactions from earlier. There had been a time when she and James had been in accord, surprisingly so. He’d been the one to show her that she could be more than a petty thief, that she could use her skills to correct wrongs done by the wallhuggers. Discovering her own power had been exhilarating, and James had shown real pride in her progress. They both took pleasure in bringing the fatpurses down a notch, in hitting the nobles where they thought themselves invulnerable. Kyra had admired James once, and—if she was honest with herself—had been attracted to him as well. Which had made it all the more devastating when he’d turned against her.

  In the end, they’d disagreed not on their goals but the means by which to accomplish them. She’d refused to shed innocent blood, and he’d called her naïve. We’re dealing with the Palace and the Council, the most powerful men in the three cities, and the swords they control, he’d told her. You don’t win this war with petty raids on their storehouses. You draw blood. That had been his philosophy, that it simply wasn’t possible to end the abuses by the wallhuggers without a costly fight. If someone had asked Kyra a week ago whether she agreed with James, she would have said no.

  Kyra hadn’t seen James since his capture. Even before the Council’s explicit prohibition, she’d kept her distance. James knew too much about Kyra, and he still embodied too many painful memories. It had made sense to stay away. But now…

  She started preparations the next day. When Flick took Lettie for a walk, Kyra locked the door behind them. She tore a few strips of cloth from an old tunic, placed them on the table, and drew her dagger. Then she hesitated. The Makvani thought nothing of spilling a few drops of their own blood, but Kyra still found it difficult. After a few false starts, she sliced a shallow cut across the top of her arm. It wasn’t deep, but it stung, and Kyra drew a sharp breath through her teeth as the blood welled out. She sopped up her blood with the cloth strips, rolled them into balls, and tucked them into her belt pouch.

  The next day, she dutifully reported to the Palace to discuss the rash of new Demon Rider attacks in the countryside. The Defense Minister had no further news on Lord Agan’s sons, and Kyra didn’t press him. Instead of leaving the Palace afterward, she took a back path that led to the prison building. She was somewhat familiar with the layout. The building itself was built solidly of stone, with barred windows in the aboveground floors. Since her series of break-ins to the Palace, Malikel had gone through and made sure that none of the windows were vulnerable. Not that it mattered much. The most dangerous and valuable criminals were imprisoned in holding cells two floors belowground.

  The building was thoroughly guarded, with Red Shields patrolling the corridors at all hours. The locks were well crafted and impossible to pick—she’d tried a few times out of curiosity. The only keys were kept by the head warden in the guardhouse in front of the building. He knew Kyra—had guarded her when she was a prisoner there—and probably wasn’t keen to trust her. The warden was supposed to keep his keys on his person at all times, but Kyra, who still paid attention to things like guards and keys, knew that he often removed his key ring from his belt and placed it on his desk while he worked.

  Now she approached the guardhouse from the back, out of view from passersby. The window was open. The warden was at his desk, and his keys were next to him. Perfect.

  The holding cells also had dog patrols—usually a deterrent to intruders, but in this case, Kyra would make them work for her. She pulled out the strips of cloth, stiff with her blood. Looking around one more time to make sure nobody was watching, she tied the cloth pieces to some bushes in front of the guardhouse, low enough so they wouldn’t be easily seen. Then she backed some distance away and waited.

  The dog patrol came by half an hour later, a Red Shield with a mean-looking wolfhound on a leash. Kyra watched the dog carefully as its handler brought him closer. A low growl came from its throat as he neared the place where Kyra had secured the cloth strips. The Red Shield pulled on the dog’s leash and looked around, but urged the animal forward when he found nothing awry. The dog’s growling continued, and as it came closer to Kyra’s dried blood, the growls turned into full-on panic. The Red Shield cursed and struggled to get the animal under control as it tried to bolt.

  “What’s going on?” The prison warden came out of the guardhouse, voice sharp.

  Kyra made her move, creeping closer to the guardhouse as quickly as she could. There was a slight wind, and she could hear the dog’s panic increase as it caught a whiff of Kyra herself. She needed to be fast. The back window to the guardhouse was open, thankfully, and she lifted herself easily through it. She could still hear the warden yelling at the Red Shield outside as the dog continued to bark and growl. His keys were still on the table.

  She made a mental note of the key ring’s position before she lifted it up, holding it carefully to keep the keys from clanging. They were arranged by floor, and she wanted the farthest cell in the lowest level. When she found it, she took a piece of clay from her belt and pressed the key into it—once on each side. She also copied the key to the main prison itself. The dog was still barking madly when she climbed back out.

  It took her four nights to file keys that would work, using one of Flick’s files that she’d borrowed and neglected to return. Kyra might have finished sooner, but these keys were complicated, and she wanted to be absolutely sure they were done right. Plus she had to do it when neither Flick nor Lettie was around. They wouldn’t have understood.

  On the fifth night, she dressed in dark clothes and snuck out of her quarters as Lettie slept. Kyra had an odd feeling of nostalgia as she crept back into the Palace. She hadn’t scaled these walls since her capture. She supposed she could have come in through the gates, but she didn’t want any record of her having entered the compound that night. Herbuilding to building, finally muscles remembered the routine well—the angle at which to cast her grappling hook, the familiar scramble up the side of the wall, the slight slipperiness of the granite against her leather shoes. The guard schedules were different now, changed in part thanks to her, so she had to be careful not to let old routines lower her guard. She kept her eyes alert and her ears open. Her blood flowed faster as she sped up her pace. It was exhilarating.

  Kyra made her way from building to building, finally slowing as the prison’s shadow loomed above her. The entrance was lit by two torches, and two guards stood on either side of the arched entryway. They never left their post, and they kept their eyes sharply trained on the path in front of them. They were attentive guards, for sure. But they hardly ever glanced upward.

  Kyra checked the sky, estimating that she had about a quarter hour before the Palace clock ran
g out the time. She skirted to the back of the building, keeping her steps soft. She didn’t hear any guards coming, so she ran straight for the wall and clambered skyward, wrapping her fingers around bars, ledges, and outcroppings in the stonework. Four stories up, then she pulled herself onto the roof and crossed to the front.

  The next step was more delicate. Carefully, Kyra worked her way back down. If she peered over her shoulder, she could see the guards standing sentry on either side of the entry archway below her. If she dislodged anything and it fell between the Red Shields, she’d have to run.

  She crept her way down until she neared the circle of light created by the torches on the wall. Kyra wrapped her fingers around some solid outcroppings and thrust her toes into secure niches. Then she pressed herself flat and waited.

  It wasn’t fun. The wind was freezing, and Kyra wondered whether her muscles would cramp up before the turn of the hour. Three hundred and twenty breaths later, the clock finally chimed, and Kyra sprang into action, her limbs cold but thankfully functional. She checked quickly over her shoulder to see if there were any people around besides the guards, breathing a quick word of thanks for her halfblood vision. Then, she climbed down into the circle of torchlight. As the clock finished up its hourly melody, she lowered her legs into the entryway and swung her entire body into the archway behind the guards. The chimes masked the sound of her landing. The clock started to mark the time—it was three in the morning. Kyra slipped her key into the door.

  First chime.

  Kyra turned the key. It rotated halfway and then caught.

  Second chime.

  She jiggled the key. The tumblers gave way.

  Third chime.

  The lock clicked open. Kyra slipped in and closed the door behind her. As the clock’s chimes faded from her ears, she let out a slow breath. She was in.