by K. A. Linde
“What do I get when you lose?” Jestre asked with a sly smile.
Ahlvie considered for a moment and then cocked his thumb in Cyrene’s direction. Jestre’s eyebrows rose, and Cyrene’s mouth dropped open.
“Are you mad?” she screeched.
“Done.” Jestre held his hand out and shook with Ahlvie. “When you lose, I get the girl.”
“I’ll not stand for it!” She smacked Ahlvie on the shoulder as hard as she could.
No wonder he hadn’t told her his plan. She would never have gone along with it.
What a completely moronic imbecile!
He couldn’t wager her. He didn’t have the right for that. What if he lost? She, an Affiliate, would somehow be attached to this…this man! If they made it through this, she was going to kill Ahlvie.
They ignored her as if her opinion had no bearing on the matter. She had never been in a world of any sort where her opinion didn’t matter.
The two men barreled out of the small room and went back into the main parlor. Jestre cleared off a table and grabbed a container of dice. The rowdy men who had surrounded them before stopped their game to see the commotion in the middle of the room. Tables were eased together, and chairs scraped across the floor, so the men could watch the game.
Cyrene glared at Ahlvie from her vantage point of the game. She wanted to throttle him for bringing her here. He would surely never hear the end of this.
“Two out of three?” Ahlvie taunted.
“One throw,” Jestre corrected. “Just one.” He pushed the dice toward Ahlvie.
“You first.” He shifted them back across the table. “I have more at stake.” He chuckled softly.
“No matter,” Jestre said with a shrug.
He had an air about him of someone who never lost. He was completely unfazed by Ahlvie’s confidence. He was so used to winning that he couldn’t even see the signs of inebriation falling off of Ahlvie or his fingers twitching to touch the dice.
Jestre shook the dice once before effortlessly tossing them on the table. They rolled a few times across the table, and everyone in the hall breathed in at once. The anticipation cleared away the anxiety she had been feeling all night. She had been so worked up about where they were, and now, when her mind was focused elsewhere, she realized this place didn’t have quite the same edge, quite the same uneasy haze about it.
The dice stopped, and Cyrene covered her ears to hold back the deafening applause from the onlookers. Jestre triumphantly smiled at her in the same way he had when he won the last hand in their previous game. “All but perfect,” he informed her. One diamond side of a die marred the perfect snake eyes. “Your roll.”
Ahlvie eagerly grabbed the dice, all signs of his earlier drunkenness gone. He swirled the dice in the cup a few times, testing it out. He covered the cup with his hand and shook it back and forth, letting the dice rattle and clink around the container. He smiled at Cyrene and then let them loose on the table.
She couldn’t even look.
Her fingers covered her eyes to keep away the disappointment. She didn’t want to know. Ahlvie had seemed so confident, but this man diced for a living in his inn. She couldn’t believe Ahlvie could outsmart someone like that.
She pried her fingers from her eyes and watched as the last side turned over, twirled on one axis a few times, and then it dropped to the table. All ones. Straight snake eyes. He’d won!
Boos and cries were shouted all around them at Jestre’s loss. The atmosphere in the room shifted at Ahlvie’s win. She could make out a few angry grunts about Jestre never losing a one-on-one game. This wasn’t looking good, and they needed to get out of here.
This was a mistake. Even if they’d won, and they had, Jestre wouldn’t let them on his boat. They had humiliated him before all of his patrons, and he wouldn’t soon forget it.
“You cheat!” Jestre cried, slamming his fist on the table. “You cheated me in my own game. You think you can get away with that in my establishment? You’ll never dice again when I’m through with you!”
“Let’s go,” Cyrene said. She fearfully tugged on Ahlvie’s sleeve.
“You promised us a ride!” Ahlvie cried over the noise that was reaching a crescendo among the drunken men.
“I promised nothing to a cheat!” Jestre grabbed the end of the table nearest Cyrene and threw it along with the dice across the room.
Cyrene jumped back in shock at the display of violence and ran into a large man holding a full mug of beer. The beer spilled onto a guy standing next to him, and suddenly, before she was even aware of what was happening, the guy threw his fist in the face of that man holding the mug.
Chaos broke out all around them. Cyrene screamed as a man tumbled to the ground next to her, having just been hit over the head with an old wooden chair. She moved farther away from the scene. Jestre threw himself at Ahlvie, pushing him backward into another table. They brawled, punching haphazardly. Mugs of beer sloshed onto the floor. Tables broke, women ran for the kitchen at the commotion, and blood flowed freely. The mixture of new smells combined with the stench of the bar turned her stomach, and she gagged as she moved out of the way of another swinging fist.
Ahlvie landed a few choice punches into Jestre’s stomach, and the bar owner retaliated with his own. A man barreled into her side. She gasped as she fell to the ground, and all the air rushed out of her lungs. Hoisting herself off the ground, she did the only thing she could think of doing.
She ran.
Cyrene’s senses tingled as adrenaline coursed through her veins. She needed to keep moving.
She had been on edge all night, and she had known that something was off, that something was going to go wrong. How could Ahlvie not feel the shift in the atmosphere as soon as he had started the game? It was destined for failure, and they should have gotten out before all hell had broken loose.
Cyrene pushed the side door open and darted into an alleyway. Her breathing heaved as she glanced down the dark depths. The alleyway was all mud. Her slippers were already a disaster, but she lifted her skirts to prevent them from soaking through on the bottom.
She edged toward the mouth of the alley, pressing her back against the dirty building. When she touched something wet and slimy, she pulled her hand back and cringed. Gross!
Her foot connected with an object leaning against the wall, and she hastily retreated. No other people remained in the alley. She leaned over and saw a box filled with garbage. Without thinking twice, her fingers grasped a large wooden board from the wreckage. Although she knew defensive techniques, she wasn’t a soldier and she wasn’t going to risk anything. She wasn’t stupid.
Board in hand, she walked the last few feet to the edge of the alley and peered around the corner, holding her breath. The brawl had broken through the front door, and men were openly fighting in the streets. The Royal Guard would surely be here soon to break up the quarrel. Wouldn’t they?
The door to the alleyway burst open before her, and she cried out as men poured out of the building. They tackled each other against the filthy walls, butting heads and drawing rusted swords from their belts. She didn’t have time to wait for the Guard now. Swords crashed together behind her, the ringing sound echoing in her ears, propelling her into action.
She darted into the open street. Two men jumped in front of her. One missed the man he was fighting and dropped his sword as the weight of his swing pulled him off balance. The man he had been attacking now stood over him with his sword raised.
Cyrene rushed past them to avoid the bloodshed and then stumbled right into the heart of the brawl. She tried not to see what was happening all around her, but she couldn’t stop it. Men lay on the ground, blood pouring from open wounds. Others were wrestling in the muddy street, landing drunken punches and kicks to their friend-turned-foe. A few remained on their feet, jabbing hidden daggers through the open air and cursing each time they missed. Cries, yells, and shouts filled the space, and Cyrene desperately wanted all the noise to s
top.
She neared the alley she had entered from with Ahlvie. When she spied an unconscious barmaid, Cyrene’s voice wavered as she cried out in horror. A huge blue bruise had formed on the woman’s head, and blood flowed from the wound. She stooped to help the woman, and a sword caught Cyrene in the side.
All her breath whooshed out of her lungs as she fell, the board leaving her hands and clattering to the ground a few feet away. She gasped. Pain seared through her. Each desperate inhale sent excruciating pain up her side. The white of her dress darkened under her hand.
Tears burst from her eyes at the sudden all-consuming pain. She pressed her hand harder against her side, hoping the blade had just punctured the skin and not done more serious damage. She didn’t even know where the man who had hit her had gone. She just needed to get out of the fight. She needed to get somewhere safe, somewhere she could assess her wound, somewhere she could get help.
As she crawled the last few feet toward the alley near the tunnel door, safety was the only thought in her mind. Her dress trudged through the mud, soaking her to the bone. She clawed her fingers through the mud and locked her mind away, trying to ignore the pain, the nausea rising in her throat, and the swoony feeling of letting go.
She finally found purchase on the wall, her hand gripping the side of the white building on the opposite side of the street from the bar. Her chest was heaving, and she pressed harder on the wound. Adrenaline fueled her forward. She scrambled out of the street and into the alley, her back pressed against the grimy wall. Spending a few precious seconds to catch her breath, she leaned her head backward. She had to move. The door wasn’t that far away.
Using the side of the building as leverage, she put the weight on her feet and slid into an upright position. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to start walking. Unfortunately, the pain didn’t ease.
Just a few more feet.
She couldn’t die like this. Cyrene steeled her resolve, locking the pain away in the deepest part of her mind, and she rushed forward.
The door was concealed around a bend, and she glided her hand along the wall to find the chink that would open it. Her hand slipped into the small hole, and she pushed. The tunnel door heaved inward, and she stumbled into the dark depths of the underground tunnel system.
Once she closed the door behind her, she collapsed on the ground. From pain and relief, tears streamed down her face. The torch had dimmed from where they left it at the bottom of the small set of steps.
Her fear began to subside the longer she sat in the tunnel entrance. True, her wound hurt worse than anything she had ever thought possible, and she was trapped all alone in a network of tunnels that she couldn’t possibly navigate, yet she was safe.
But she couldn’t say the same for Ahlvie. Did Jestre’s men gang up on him? Had a knife been pushed into his ribs? Is he lying dead in that disgusting bar?
No! She couldn’t think like that. Ahlvie could handle himself. He was sober and could get himself out of the situation he’d created. If he didn’t come find her soon, she would find a way to get back to him.
Cyrene eased herself down the set of stairs and painstakingly stood. She hissed between her teeth, the tears falling faster, as her muddy fingers found the handle of the torch and pulled it from its hook. She gingerly sank back down on the stone step, holding the torch high and pulling back her blood-coated right hand to see the wound in her side.
She gagged at the amount of blood soaking through her dress and looked away, trying not to vomit in the tunnel. After a few seconds of deep breathing, she raised the hem of her dress and found a gouge about an inch in diameter where the edge of the man’s sword had nicked her in the side. Blood still trickled out of the gash, and she reapplied pressure. It wasn’t clotting. She needed someone proficient in medicinal treatment, like a medic…or Maelia. She replaced the torch overhead and sat again, covering her wound.
Cyrene’s next shuddering breath made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She swallowed, suddenly alert. It was the same feeling she’d had earlier, first in the alley and then in the bar. She had thought it had something to do with their surroundings, but she was safe in the tunnel now.
The atmosphere in the tunnel shifted, morphed, disintegrated, and returned. It became its own being, swirling around her feet and coalescing. Her stomach flipped, and goose bumps broke out across her arms. She scrambled to her feet, her mind groggy and slow. The air pressed in on her as if it wanted to ease the tension in her body. She bit her lip, looking around in the shadows, knowing instinctively that someone else was doing this, whatever this was…commanding the air, telling her what to do.
She knew then that it had happened before—that strange feeling she had gotten at Zorian’s funeral, in the Laelish Market, in the crowd leaving the boats when they first arrived in Albion, in the bar when she had won with all snake eyes, and when the fight had broken loose.
Someone was here.
Cyrene swallowed. “Hello? Is someone there?”
“Don’t try to fight me.”
A wave hit her mind, and she cringed away from the stab. “What are you doing?” she cried out.
“You will give in.”
“Not likely,” she spat.
Cyrene squeezed her eyes shut and tried to focus on getting rid of the pain. She couldn’t handle the jolt in her side and whatever this thing was that was going on inside her mind. Without even knowing what she was doing, she pushed back at the whisper in her brain. She prodded it as if it were a living organism invading her mind. She found an edge, imagined a brick wall forming in between it and her mind, then, she slammed the wall down as hard as she could. She pushed, poked, shoved until something clicked. One wall crashed all around her, like breaking ice, and she heard a soft sound, like a yelp, inside her head.
Did I do something? Did it work? She couldn’t even comprehend how this was possible, but she didn’t have enough energy to think about it. All she did was push her mind harder and fight with all her strength…for she instinctively knew the end result if she lost.
She heard laughter in her mind. The thing was still there.
“I am old and powerful, girl. You will lose this battle, and I will relish in your loss.”
She grunted at the interruption. It thought that it could intimidate her. She didn’t even know what it was, but she wasn’t about to allow it access to her. She fought back, clawing at the words forming in her head. She would not lose!
She shook her head, as she screamed, “No” in her mind. Whatever it was couldn’t have her mind.
“Weakling, you think to defeat me?”
Her mouth fell open at the fierceness of the voice that felt like the edge of a razor blade. Someone shouldn’t be able to talk in her mind. The shock gave it an opening, and it came back at her harder, lashing out like a whip and slicing through what meager fortification she had built.
“Your powers have grown stronger since I started tracking you. Thus, it must be extinguished like the flame of a candle.”
She didn’t understand. Powers? What powers?
The voice laughed in her mind again. “Your reluctance to believe matters is humorous. Yes, you have powers, and no one with powers survives in this world, not while I’m in it. Regardless of your belief, I still must kill you.”
“Kill me?” she cried.
“You act surprised, but it has been coming for a long time.”
“I don’t understand.”
The force of keeping the thing from pushing further into her head hurt like hell, and she wanted it gone. She didn’t want it setting up camp where it didn’t belong.
“I was summoned to track you ever since you used your powers to bring a downpour. That sparked the ultimate deaths of others with powers like you while I searched for you. Surely, you took notice.”
A chill ran up her spine at the softness mixed with the cutthroat sharpness of the voice.
I brought the rain? What did that even mean? Like at my Presenting after I
made Affiliate? Had that been the reason for everything else that had spiraled out of control since then? All the…deaths.
Her mind ran through a series of images, starting on the day of her Presenting—Zorian and Leslin’s deaths, Pallia and Grabel’s murders, Captain Lador, and the poor Affiliate Karra who had been searching for her. They had all been linked to her in some way. This thing that had been hunting her had finally caught up with her.
“So, you remember,” the voice screeched in her head, grating on her eardrums.
“Murderer,” she growled low, anger welling inside of her.
“I’ve gone by that name before.”
It laughed in her mind, and she lashed out with her mind at its flippant air. It retaliated, slicing at the newest fortification in her mind. She yelped, grabbing her temples. It only made the pain in her side double, and she pushed her hand back at her bleeding side.
“That won’t heal.”
“Why not?” she spat, clutching her side harder at his words.
“The sword I used to cut you has a poisonous blade. I embedded the venom myself. It prevents blood clotting and is excruciatingly painful.”
“You did this?” She applied more pressure as the fear of his words broke through her mind.
“It is too simple to lead my prey to their downfall. I knew you would walk right to me. I simply had to wait for the right time. The others were casualties from your spark of power. Their blood still hummed with energy even though they could not hope to touch it as you do. Now, their blood hums no more. You will have that in common.”
“My blood hums with energy? What does that even mean?” she cried. “Why are you doing this?” New tears fell on her cheeks.
“Because I was summoned by the rightful Dremylon heir to fulfill my mission to never allow the Children of the Dawn to resurface after they were extinguished two thousand years ago.”
“The rightful Dremylon heir? Edric?” she gasped. “He would never…”
“The Doma and their magical abilities cursed this land. After the Fall of the Light, Darkness now rules, and we will take no chances of you regaining control. If you join the Darkness, you might be spared.”