Everything within the market paused, held for a single collective breath. In that moment of silence, the oceanic tide of hatred and contempt rose in a chokehold, then crested and broke in the space of a heartbeat.
The entire market exploded into chaos, men and women surging toward the Dogs with roars of defiance and hate. Those closest struck them instantly, hitting them hard, grappling with them as they tried to bring them down. But the patrons of the market didn’t carry weapons and the Dogs did. The lead Dog shouted orders and swung his sword in a tight sweep, cutting two attackers across the chest, both collapsing to the ground with shocked expressions and sprays of blood. One of them writhed in silent agony, blood pouring from between his hands where he clutched his wound. The other remained still. But no one paid them any attention, the lead Dog falling back a step, the Dogs regrouping, their blades flaring in the sunlight as they began hacking at their attackers. Kara saw two more cut down, one of them a woman. The entire market had gone mad, a frenzy of confusion as people lurched toward the Dogs in rage or scrambled to get out of the way. The madness rolled across Kara’s skin in waves. Her gut tightened. Her breath came in shortened, sharp gasps. Her chest ached. She was being jostled on all sides as people tried to flee, the glimpses of those who ran past her studies in panic.
Marcus seized her arm. “Kara, let’s go.”
“Ischua.”
The Tender hadn’t moved. The crowd surged around him as if he were a stone in a river, a monolith of calm.
His attention was fixed on the Hound.
Kara had forgotten about him. But the lean man had his own blade out, was carving a path of death toward Ischua’s position, his motions fluid, subtle, precise, and deadly. His sword slid out to the side as he was attacked, slicing deep into an arm, a cheek, a thigh, or a gut, blade twisting and flicking too fast to be seen, but his attackers fell to either side. He kept his attention forward, shifting only to dodge the bodies or step over a moaning form. While the Dogs had nearly been overwhelmed, the Hound hadn’t even been touched, hadn’t broken stride.
He halted a pace away from Ischua. Kara tensed as the two stared at each other. The Hound said something. Ischua responded, and then the Hound glanced toward Kara and Marcus. Marcus sucked in a breath through his teeth, but the Hound wasn’t looking for them. He looked beyond, in the direction the man who’d lurched into Ischua had run earlier. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared.
With a casual thrust, the Hound sank his blade into Ischua’s stomach. The Tender sagged forward over the Hound’s hand. The Hound caught his shoulder, yanked his sword free, and let the Tender drop to the ground. Blood coated the front of Ischua’s clothes, dribbled from his mouth and into his beard.
Shock kept Kara rooted to the flagstone for one breath . . . two.
And then she screamed, “Ischua!” the Tender’s name ragged at the end as something in her throat tore. She leaped toward his crumpled form, images of her parents’ corpses flaring before her eyes with sickening clarity, but Marcus’ arm snaked around her waist and hauled her back. She struggled, shrieking, tears blurring her vision, but Marcus held on tight. The Hound shot her a curious glance, paused in his hunt, then continued on past them, picking up his pace as the crowd thinned. Kara kept her gaze locked on Ischua, kicking and scratching as Marcus pulled her away. The Tender coughed up more blood, rolled onto his side, struggled to rise, one arm clenched across his stomach, that hand still absurdly holding the package he’d shopped for earlier. But he had no strength. Sobbing hysterically, Kara watched him collapse onto his side, curl inward upon himself, face contorted in pain—
And then their eyes met.
Across the distance, their sightline cut off occasionally by patrons of the market as they ran between them in blurs of motion, Ischua’s brows knit in consternation and he frowned. He nodded once and mouthed the word, “Go.”
A reprimand. An order.
Then he laid his head down against the bloody flagstone and died, his entire body going slack.
All of the strength ran out of Kara’s arms and legs. “Ischua.”
Marcus cursed and thrust them both through the press of people clogging the market, dragging her along beside him. Kara dangled from his hold, his arm pressing painfully up under her ribs, until Ischua’s form was lost from sight. She slumped forward a moment, let her feet scrape along the flagstones, bump over debris—a blanket, the remains of a woven basket—and then she pushed against Marcus’ arm, struggled to regain her feet. He squeezed tighter at first, then realized she was trying to help him and let her go, catching hold of her arm instead as she sank into a crouch.
“Kara,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I know,” she muttered, her voice weak. Her throat hurt when she spoke or swallowed. “I know, Marcus. Give me a minute to catch my breath.”
He looked her over, then nodded, releasing her arm and standing over her protectively as the chaos of the market flowed around them. They’d reached the edge opposite where the Dogs had entered the square. It was calmer here, although people were still racing away from the fight, or toward it.
Marcus stirred beside her, his leg nudging her shoulder. “The fight is growing,” he said. “More Dogs have just arrived. We shouldn’t stay here much longer.”
Kara pressed a hand against her chest, above her heart, and squeezed her eyes shut. It felt as if a stone had lodged itself beneath her throat. Her breath came in hitches, her pulse raced. Her face was flushed and her sinuses clogged with snot. And she couldn’t keep the last image of Ischua from appearing through the blur of her tears, that last order.
Go.
He’d died to protect her in some way. She didn’t know how, didn’t know why he hadn’t fled for Halliel’s Park like he said he would. But she knew he’d done it for her.
Gathering her strength, she pushed herself up from the crouch and met Marcus’ concerned gaze.
“I’ll be fine,” she lied.
Marcus didn’t believe her; she saw it in his eyes. She saw something else as well. Something had hardened inside him, as if he’d come to a decision, made some sort of resolution. But he laced the fingers of one hand with hers and said, “Come on. We have to warn Timmons and the node.”
Dalton slipped from the market square, headed south toward Confluence, before suddenly changing his mind and angling west. The crowds of the market would only slow the Dogs, not stop them. He wasn’t certain they would detain the Hound at all. As he moved, picking up his pace as the concentration of people eased, he checked back over his shoulder repeatedly. He heard the start of the uproar in the market, nothing more than a background rumble of defiance, like distant thunder. Five blocks farther on, he stepped into a shadowed alcove as whistles pierced the air and a group of five Dogs and three city watch charged past. Dalton watched as pedestrians ducked out of the way, then returned to the street to watch the distance in consternation. Hushed conversations began, most returning to whatever task had been interrupted.
But not all. Some of them shared dark glances and began walking toward the square, hands falling to where weapons were concealed in belts or boots or pouches.
Dalton edged out of the shadows, lips pressed tight. In the distance, a pillar of smoke had started to rise and it sounded as if the riot had spread beyond the square.
Perhaps what the Kormanley hadn’t been able to achieve with their bombs, the Baron would bring about with his Dogs.
The thought made him smile.
Then he turned and moved on. The back of his neck prickled with urgency. He had no time to savor the violence. If he’d succeeded, his visions would end and he could finally rest. Until then . . .
Until then, he still had to escape the Hound.
He mulled that problem over as he headed toward the bridge across the Tiana, continuing to check over his shoulder for pursuit.
He’d begun to relax, still
two blocks from the bridge, when his skin began to crawl between his shoulders and he spun, lowering into a half crouch. His gaze flicked between the buildings behind, passed from face to face—
Then settled on the lean features of the Hound, stalking down the center of the road directly toward him.
A wave of weakness passed down into Dalton’s legs, but he stumbled back, twisted, and hustled toward the bridge. He had no weapon, knew it would have been useless even if he held one, but still wasted time searching for something of use in the shops he passed, or what his fellow citizens were carrying. It was instinct. But there was nothing. Sweat broke out as he picked up speed, crossing the first intersection. He could see the bridge ahead, the huge marble pedestals to either side depicting rearing horses, the stone arching up slightly across the expanse of the river. Ley carts and wagons clogged the entrance, but the footpaths to either side with the grand stone railings weren’t as busy. He headed for the left walkway, nearly getting hit by a cart as he crossed the last intersection. The rearing horse loomed over him and he risked a glance backward, catching sight of the Hound now less than half a block behind. Breath catching in his throat, he dodged past a woman with two children in tow, skirted the stone division between the pedestrian walkway and the road, and trotted out onto the expanse.
He was halfway across, the Candle District in sight on the far side, when he realized the Hound was less than twenty paces behind.
He panicked, his heart thundering in his ears, and lurched toward the roadway, searching for a cart to jump onto, a horse to steal. But there was nothing, everyone moving too fast. He backed up, the Hound now ten feet away, a knife glinting unobtrusively in his hand. Dalton swallowed, a sinking sensation filling his chest—
And then his back bumped into the stone railing. He glanced down, the drop to the dark waters of the river making him dizzy.
Water.
He stilled.
Water hid scents. Isn’t that how prey got lost during a hunt? He wasn’t certain. He’d grown up in the city, had lived here his entire life. But he thought so. He thought he’d read it somewhere. But even so, that was for regular hounds. Would it work against a Hound?
He didn’t know. But he didn’t think about it either. It was his only option.
He glanced up, the Hound five paces distant, and smiled. “Give my regards to the Baron.”
Then he leaned backward, slipped over the railing, and fell to the river below.
Kara pulled the trunk out from beneath her bed and began packing—clothes, odds and ends she’d picked up in Eld or her time in Grass, other objects she’d been given by the shopkeepers she’d helped as a Wielder. There wasn’t much. The node provided most of what its Wielders needed in terms of food, accommodations, and other essentials. But she had made the little stone bedroom her own in small ways.
She moved from bed to dresser to table rotely, her mind elsewhere. She knew the rest of the Wielders, and Marcus in particular, were concerned. It had been four days since Ischua had died, two since the riots that started in the Eld market square had finally died down, although the tension and clashes within the city itself had only heightened. People were revolting in the streets, in what many had begun calling the Purge. Pillars of smoke from burning buildings and riots had become commonplace. During all of that time, Kara had performed her duties as Wielder without fail, but she’d been withdrawn. She felt as if she were removed from her body, hovering slightly above her own shoulders, watching as it lived her life for her. She’d gone with Marcus to search out a small apartment that they could afford, one not that far from the node or the ley station. Timmons had informed her that she’d be shifted to another node at the end of her second year, but he didn’t know which district yet. He’d been apologetic about the transfer, but happy that she and Marcus were finally moving forward with their relationship. He still expected them to arrive for their patrols on time, of course. He’d said it with mock sternness, hoping for a reaction, but when Kara had merely nodded, he’d cast a worried look at Marcus.
She saw all of the looks, noted all of the touches of comfort that Kyle and Katrina and the others gave her, recognized their attempts to draw her out, to make her laugh. But she wasn’t ready yet. Her chest was hollow. Ischua had been a surrogate parent for her after her real parents had died at Seeley Park. He’d been her support during her years at the Wielders’ college, her strength, emotionally as well as academically. He’d been her . . .
Stone.
She paused, her heart wrenching as she caught sight of the stone—blue-black, with swirls of white in it. Picking it up, she rubbed her thumb over its river-smoothed surface, thought about the test in Halliel’s Park with her father and Ischua watching, about Ischua handing her the stone at the secret tavern reserved only for those who’d achieved their purples.
The tears stung. She thought she’d cried herself out over the last few days, but apparently not.
Stepping back, she slumped down onto the bed, clutched the stone to her chest, and let the wrenching, hitching sobs claim her.
Marcus moved among the patrons of Bittersly Street, mouth turned down in a frown, brow creased in deep thought. He’d left Kara packing at the node, after days of attempting to keep her active and involved. But nothing had worked. She’d participated, but her expression was vacant and dazed. She’d sunken into herself, retreated, and he hadn’t been able to bring her back.
Timmons had told him it would take time, that there was nothing to be concerned about. But his skin itched and his muscles twitched. He needed to do something, something to bring the Kara he knew back, something to make everything better.
Something to make those who’d hurt her pay.
He halted across the street from the Tambourine, uncertain. He didn’t know if he trusted Dierdre, didn’t know if she was Kormanley or not, although he suspected she was. But even if she were, the Kormanley had never targeted Kara’s parents. From everything he knew, they’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It had been an accident.
Ischua’s death wasn’t an accident.
And then there was the Kormanley’s stance on the ley. The Primes were abusing the system, hoarding it, misusing the resources by creating the Flyers’ Tower and then ignoring the consequences, such as the distortions that were still plaguing the city.
His fists clenched as he thought of how the Primes had treated Kara during their interrogation, how they planned to accelerate her ascension to a Master and a Prime so that they could use her power for themselves.
They needed to be stopped. The Baron and his Dogs needed to be stopped. And the Kormanley were the only ones willing to stand up to them all.
Forcibly relaxing the tension in his shoulders and hands, he stepped across the street and into the Tambourine. The man serving customers inside—dark-haired like Dierdre, with similar features—looked up with a smile.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Dierdre,” Marcus said tightly. “She told me I could find her here.”
PART IV
Seventeen
KARA KICKED IN THE DOOR, stormed into the flat she’d shared with Marcus in the Eld District for the last twelve years, and headed straight for the bedroom, touching the ley globe alight without thought. She’d known something was up, had known it for the past two years, but she’d ignored it . . . or tried to. But accidentally seeing him at the Tambourine, sitting at a table and laughing with that damned dark-haired woman—
She slammed open the trunk at the end of the bed, rifled through the contents, removed anything belonging to Marcus, then began searching the room for her own possessions. She packed her clothes in tight, tucked a few objects—the stone Ischua had given her, a blown glass bottle the woman on the corner had gifted her, a few well-worn books from Cory—into the side, then stood, hands on her hips, and scanned the rest of the room.
The bed she
ets were tousled as usual, a few random clothes hanging from a chair or the corner of a table. The posts where they hung their purple Wielder’s jackets were empty, although she didn’t think Marcus had been wearing his at his . . . meeting; she’d come from the node and her stint in the pit with the ley, so she had hers on. The table to one side was littered with trinkets gathered or given to them from around Eld—necklaces of beads, a Gorrani sash, a pair of jade earrings that Kara retrieved and tossed in the trunk—for services rendered or simply because they were Wielders. An empty mug rested beside a plate full of crumbs from a hasty meal. More clothes were stacked on top of additional trunks, but there was nothing on the walls except a trailing vine painted in one corner long before they’d arrived.
Satisfied she’d missed nothing, Kara closed the trunk and hauled it out into the main room, letting it fall with a thunk, then began collecting items from the kitchen. Her favorite cup and saucer for tea, the packets of expensive jarkeeling from the southern continent, plates, the earthenware bowls she loved, the mug that was really Marcus’ but she wanted anyway, and some of the rice and beans, just because—all of it added to the trunk. She did a run through the main room, picking out a few odds and ends, then moved to the window and stared out into the back gardens below the building, where the neighbors had planted herbs, tomatoes, peppers, and corn. Peas climbed strings running up the far wall, the one receiving the most sunlight during the day. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited, her anger growing as the sun shifted. A Gorrani woman appeared, face covered in a bright scarf, her two small children in tow. They giggled and cavorted as she tended the garden, then were herded back inside.
She heard Marcus in the hall outside, his voice loud as he spoke to someone downstairs, so she stood facing him when he entered. He noticed the trunk blocking his way first, then her standing at the window. Confusion flickered in his eyes, followed by irritation, then anger. He tossed his jacket over the trunk.
Shattering the Ley Page 32