by Amber Argyle
Darsam settled his cloak over her revealing dress and pulled the hood over her blond hair. “Stay close,” he whispered.
He hopped over the balcony, Cinder a step behind him. Neither of them said a word as they stumbled in the dark through the rain, cutting between the rolling hills to avoid being seen. She counted the bruises and welts she earned from the undergrowth—twenty-one by the time they reached the wall.
Darsam took hold of a single rope that dangled down from the top of the wall. “There might be soldiers up there. Let me go first.”
She grabbed his arm. “You shouldn’t have come back for me.”
He pushed a dagger into her hands. “Anyone tries to stop you, stick them with this.”
Then he was hauling himself up the rope. Cinder started up right behind him, using the rain-swollen knots someone had tied. She had grasped the seventeenth knot when Darsam reached the top of the wall and motioned for her to wait. After looking around carefully, he leaned down to take her hand.
From the shadows came a rushing sound and movement. Cinder gave a cry of warning. Darsam spun, his sword coming from its sheath with a hiss. There was a brief scuffle. A man screamed as he fell from the top of the wall. He slammed into Cinder, sending her sliding down the rope. The rough fibers burned her palm. When her hands hit the sixteenth knot, her right fingers let go of their grip on the rope, leaving her dangling by her left hand.
“Darsam?” she cried. He couldn’t have been the one to have fallen. That has to be one of Jatar’s guards. Has to be. Has to be. Has to be.
She rotated to grip the rope with her right hand again. She started to slip when a warm palm slapped against the top of her hand. “Cinder!”
After hauling her up to the wall walk and steadying her, Darsam’s head whipped around. She followed his gaze and saw lights come on in the guard house. He pulled up the rope, took two steps to the other side of the wall, and threw the rope down. “You first. Hurry,” he told Cinder.
Heart pounding with fear at her near fall, she looked down to see shadows moving in the stillness. “There’s something down there.”
“My men.”
“Darsam.” The voice cracked like a teenage boy’s. “Quit dancing with the lady and let’s go!”
“My strings are wet,” another man complained. Cinder thought she recognized Ashar’s voice. “Not even sure if the blasted crossbow will shoot.”
Knowing Jatar didn’t need these men alive—except for Darsam—gave Cinder the courage to swing her leg over the wall. She focused on the rope, trying to forget about the fall to the bottom. The sound of a bolt firing and a distant cry of pain alerted her to the guards who were coming.
“Oh, good, they still work,” said the boy’s voice. Cinder looked down. In the darkness, all she could see were moving shadows. “Jump,” the boy called to her.
Her fingers clenched the knot. She wondered what number it was. “I can’t see anything.”
“I’m right under you. Jump!” repeated the boy.
Darsam stepped on Cinder’s hand. She tried to gauge the distance in the dark, but then she heard hacking sounds.
“Cinder, they’re cutting the rope!”
She closed her eyes and let go. Arms windmilling, she fell through the air. She landed on what she thought was a horse’s rump, which made the animal lunge forward. Cinder toppled to the muddy ground with her skirt tangled around her legs. She pushed to her feet. Something bumped into her, so she reached out. Fur and leather. A horse.
“Get on.” It was definitely Ashar’s voice.
“I don’t know how to ride,” she admitted.
“Hang on and let your legs absorb the shock,” Darsam said from above her. Somehow he’d gotten down from the rope and mounted a horse, while she’d barely made it to her feet. Her fumbling hands finally found the stirrup, and she managed to climb into the saddle.
The animal bolted toward the blackness, and it was all Cinder could do to stay in the saddle. As they cut across country on a dirt road that wove through the orchards, mud flung up behind them and pelted their backs. Jatar’s men gave chase. They were gaining on them.
“Denar!” Darsam said.
Behind them, a wall of multicolored flames roared up—it had to be luminash—bringing the pursuers’ horses up short. In the light of those flames, Cinder saw Jatar among the men. He pointed to the person riding on the other side of her, a boy of around thirteen. “There he is! Bring him down!”
A dozen men aimed their crossbows at the boy, who had to be Denar, the wielder of the luminash. A dozen bolts shot toward him. A blast of hot wind rose up from nowhere, nearly forcing Cinder from her saddle. When she looked back, Denar seemed unhurt, and the archers were nearly out of range. The wall of flames continued to burn bright and hot, preventing Jatar and his men from following.
Cinder turned in time to see lights reflecting off the ground in front of them. She didn’t understand what she was seeing until she heard the rushing sound and realized it was the river reflecting the firelight.
“Denar, you all right?” asked Darsam.
“Fine,” the boy said lightly.
Darsam maneuvered his horse in front of Cinder’s. “We have to ford the river. If we can reach the other side, we can disappear into the night.”
“I can’t—I can’t swim,” Cinder protested. Fire and burning, she was going to die tonight. Maybe that was better. She couldn’t betray Darsam if she died.
He pulled his mount around. “Just hold on,” he told her. “Let your horse do the swimming.” The animals in front stepped hesitantly into the dark water, and at the urging of their riders, waded deeper. Darsam and Cinder followed, and suddenly she could feel her horse swimming beneath her—the movements surprisingly graceful and smooth. Two more of Darsam’s men brought up the rear.
Cinder winced as a wave splashed over her legs. “What about crocodiles . . . and snakes?”
No one answered, but she noticed Darsam and his men watching the water, swords out. Leaning low over her horse’s neck, she breathed in the animal’s wet-dusty smell, trying to pretend she was in the House of Night’s stables instead of in the middle of a reptile-infested river with slavers on her tail.
Suddenly, the light was gone. Cinder looked back to see only a smoldering line of red where ten-foot flames had been. Something splashed upriver. She turned to see a riderless horse. Where was Denar?
Something hit Cinder’s leg, and her horse lunged forward. Hoping she was right and it was Denar and not a crocodile, she reached out. At the touch of cloth under her fingers, she fumbled to grasp the boy’s arms and pull him up. He wasn’t as heavy or as large as she’d first thought. With the help of the current, she managed to get his chest onto her saddle. Pinning him with her elbow, she felt him over, trying to figure out what was wrong. A quarrel stuck out of his right shoulder. He must have been hit by the first volley. But he hadn’t even cried out, just kept riding.
Guilt surged through Cinder. Denar came to help free her. And now he’d been shot.
Her horse calmed a little and started swimming after the others. The river kept trying to pull Denar from Cinder’s arms, but she strained to hold on. When her mount caught purchase on the muddy bank, the boy started slipping from Cinder’s grip.
Bracing herself, she called out to Darsam, “Help!”
The other riders turned toward her. “Denar!” one of the men cried.
“I told you we shouldn’t have let him come,” Ashar said.
“His mother is going to kill us,” said another.
Darsam hoisted Denar onto his saddle. “There was no leaving him behind, and you all know it.” He looked back at Cinder. “It’s not far to the city. But you have to keep up.”
She nodded. “I will.”
Then the horses were thundering toward the city gleaming white and gold in the distance.
Cinder followed Darsam as he held Denar in his arms and shouldered his way into the palace. Behind him scrambled his men and a handful
of city and palace guards. In the palace lights, she recognized a limping Ashar. He and another man broke off from the group in search of the healer. Darsam moved from a receiving area to a room just past the back staircase. While his men spread out around him, he set Denar down on the table. The gangly youth of perhaps thirteen, with peach fuzz on his upper lip, was conscious now. He gritted his teeth against the pain and gasped.
It is my fault, my fault, my fault, Cinder thought.
Denar’s gaze locked on her. “Ah, now I see why you insisted we save her.”
“I told you to stay back,” Darsam growled. He was covered in the boy’s blood.
“Only because you were afraid that once she saw me, she’d forget all about you.”
Cinder’s mouth fell open. “What?”
Darsam ripped off the boy’s robe. “Denar is the biggest flirt you’ll ever meet—but he’s harmless. Mostly.”
Despite the fact that his lips were turning a lurid purple, Denar winked at her. Cinder studied his wound. The bolt hadn’t passed all the way through—the feathered end still bristled from his back. She didn’t know much about wounds or healing, but she didn’t think this was the sort of thing one survived.
Denar had risked his life to save her, and now he was dying. “How can you be so relaxed about it?” she asked him.
The boy coughed, blood running down his cheek. His entire mouth was red with it. “My mother won’t let me die.”
“The rest of you, go,” Darsam said to his men as he packed the wound with cloth. “If his mother doesn’t know already, she will soon. No need to be here when she comes.”
“His mother?” Cinder said in confusion.
“The goddess, Queen Nelay,” Darsam replied.
She gasped softly. The boy’s mother was the goddess that Cinder was supposed to kill.
“She has a bit of a temper,” the boy managed. Bloody foam sprayed from his mouth as he coughed.
“The healer is coming,” Ashar said as he entered the room, his limp more pronounced now. “Why should you be the one to face her?” He directed the question to Darsam.
Darsam frowned. “I was the one who needed your help, so I will take responsibility.” He nodded toward Cinder. “Take her with you.”
Ashar started toward her. “I’m not going anywhere,” she exclaimed, moving away from him.
A woman in healer’s robes and messy hair hurried into the room. “May the fire protect us,” she gasped. She pushed Darsam out of the way. “Out, the lot of you!”
Darsam backed toward the door, his eyes not leaving the prince. “His mother is the Goddess of Fire,” Darsam told Cinder. “And she has a temper like wildfire. Once she finds out I allowed her son to come with us on this mission, she may very well kill me.”
This was why Jatar had followed Cinder after she’d left the mansion. Why he had ordered his men to shoot at the prince and no one else. To lure in the goddess. My fault, my fault, my fault.
“You needed me, Darsam,” the boy said, his skin gray. “And I didn’t give you much of a choice.”
The healer shot them an exasperated look. “Out! All of you!”
Darsam took hold of Cinder’s arm and guided her out. He pulled her fifteen steps down the corridor and into another room. Cushions surrounded a low table. A utilitarian bed rested against one corner. It was his room, she realized with a start as he shut the door behind him.
He pulled her back to arms’ length and looked her up and down. Under his cloak, she still wore the scandalous dress from Jatar, which was soaking wet from the rain and the river. Mud was mixed in there too. And blood. Uncomfortable with Darsam’s scrutiny, Cinder crossed her arms over her breasts, but he was already moving to a table. He picked up a bucket and dumped water into a basin.
He laid out soap and a wash rag and asked, “Did he hurt you?”
Cinder couldn’t meet Darsam’s gaze, afraid he would see the treachery there. But she had to follow through with Jatar’s plan and kill the queen. Otherwise, Durux would torture and kill Cinder’s mother and grandmother. “No. He didn’t hurt me,” she answered after several seconds.
Obviously relieved, Darsam said, “Wash up. I’m going to go find you some clothes.” He left the room.
Cinder started to strip down but paused when she felt the vial sewed into the bosom of the dress. She pulled it out and held it up to the light. Her fingers were dirty and bloody, but they would wash clean. If she did this, her soul would forever be stained.
I don’t have a choice. She hid the vial behind the basin. She yanked off the dress, not caring when the silk ripped, then balled up the gown and threw it into a corner. Next, she wet a washcloth and did the best she could to clean up. Touching the welts on her legs brought a hiss from her lips.
Cinder was debating whether to try to clean her hair when Darsam called her name. Her gaze darted to where she’d hidden the vial, and she realized what a poor job she’d done of it. “Don’t come in!”
“I’ve brought clothes.”
She went to the door and stuck out her bare arm. He pushed something into her grip and said, “They’re my sister’s. I think they should fit.”
Cinder slipped on the trousers and robe, noticing the exceptional craftsmanship. She tucked the vial into the breast wrap, checked to make sure it wouldn’t be noticed from the outside, and opened the door. “Is Denar really the prince?” she asked.
Holding a bucket of water, Darsam stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “Yes. He is Nelay’s son.”
Cinder didn’t know where to put her hands. “What will she do?”
Darsam dumped her used water out the window and poured some fresh for himself. “You don’t need to worry. You’ll never go back to slavery again. We’ll hide you in the palace until it’s safe to sneak you out of the city.”
Why did he have to be so kind? So perfect? “And go where?”
He stripped off his bloody robes, revealing broad, defined muscles. He pushed his red hands into the water, took the soap, and began to lather up the same cloth Cinder had used. “I imagine you want to go back to the clanlands. They’re your people, regardless of whether or not you were born an Idaran.”
Even now, he would ask nothing of her. She wished he would. Wished he would prove himself to be something less. “Why did you come for me?” she asked him. “Why did you risk so much?”
“I couldn’t just leave you with Durux. I know what kind of monster he is.” Darsam rinsed the cloth out and began wiping the soap from his body. “I made the rest of them stay behind—I wouldn’t risk their lives. Just my own. And I still managed to get Denar shot.”
She watched as Darsam ducked his head in the water and soaped up his hair. He was a lord’s son. A smuggler. He could be and have anything he wanted, and yet he’d given up any chance at a normal, long life in order to help slaves. Cinder felt a rush of affection for this man who was so kind and good and gentle.
“So you would have done the same for any other slave?” she asked him.
He wrung the water from his hair and turned to face her, droplets slipping down his skin. His dark eyes met her silver ones. She saw it in his gaze—a tenderness. “I told you, I would do anything for you.”
Darsam cared about her—maybe he was even in love with her. In all the world, she didn’t think she’d ever find his equal. But he would never be hers, because she had to kill his aunt to save her own mother and grandmother.
Cinder stepped forward, took Darsam’s face in her hands, and kissed him. He responded immediately, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. The kiss was tender and bittersweet, his lips soft and giving. But there was a trace of heat against her frozen skin. His hands trembled as he touched her hair.
What if she’d been wrong about him? She wanted to be wrong about him. She knew how to find out. She deepened the kiss. Her hands moved to the tie of his robes, but he rested his hands on her, gently holding her in place. “Cinder, why are you crying?”
Surprised, s
he reached up and touched her cheek.
“I know you’re upset,” Darsam said quietly. “I know you’re frightened. But I’ve told you before, you don’t have to give me anything. You don’t owe me anything. If something is going to happen between us, I want it to be because you care about me as much as I care about you. Not because you feel you have to.”
He put a little distance between them. Without him to hold her up, Cinder collapsed in on herself, holding her arms and sobbing. Immediately, Darsam moved close again and took her into his arms. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
How could she tell him that she wanted something more between them? Wanted it just as much as she’d ever wanted to be free? But she would never have him because she had to betray him.
There was a rushing sound, like the roar of wildfire. Darsam pulled back. “Stay here,” he ordered. He grabbed a clean robe from a chest, jerked open his door, and rushed down the hall. Wiping her eyes, Cinder followed right behind him and was suddenly inundated with the smell of baked sand. Inside the sickroom, a woman stood over the prince, wings of fire spreading from her back and filling the whole space with a dangerous heat.
She looked up as they came in, flames dancing in her eyes. “What have you done to my son?”
Darsam noticed Cinder as she caught up to him. He pushed her behind him, then held out his free hand toward the queen. “You know how Denar is. He takes after his parents.”
“He’s a thirteen-year-old boy!” Nelay shot back.
“He saved our lives,” Darsam said softly, “when he created the fire that blocked the slavers.”
The queen’s wings expanded. “How dare you put him at risk? He—”
Denar rested a hand on her arm. “Mother, you’re going to burn down the palace, and our aunt and uncle and all our cousins with it.”
“I only plan to burn him down.” Nelay stabbed her finger in Darsam’s direction.
“You will do no such thing!” a voice cried. A woman came into the room, her hair in a messy braid. She wore a loose robe over her sleeping clothes and was obviously pregnant. She planted herself in front of Darsam. “Nelay, Darsam is my stepson. Your nephew.”