Darkwind, p.12
Darkwind, page 12
“Whatever’s coming,” Julian murmured, “whatever paces they put you through, I want you to know you have me. You won’t be alone.”
And it was those words—his last before he kissed her hair, slipped from the bed, and left the room—that kept Cistine awake deep into the night. Fantasies, fears, and giddiness took their turns toying with her heartstrings, just as this cabal would soon take turns testing her fortitude. And she couldn’t find peace from either.
The moon had passed over the river, painting the sky with milky light, when Cistine finally gave up on sleep and padded out to explore the house.
There were two levels, but the second was separated into rooms accessed by individual staircases, as Cistine had gathered from the lay of Thorne’s chamber. Ashe and Julian slept just off the kitchen, through the second doorway. Everything beyond that was a mystery to her.
Cistine shuffled quietly through the kitchen, still smelling faintly of berries and nuts, and into the second dark hall. She glimpsed Ashe’s room on the left, doorless, its single window looking out over the river. One of the watermills churned outside, creating soft music in a spray of droplets painted with moonlight like falling stars.
On the right was Julian’s room, this one without a window. She could see nothing inside, not even the suggestion of Julian’s outline as he slept. She paused for a moment, resting her feet and leaning against the doorframe, and wondered what would happen if she woke him and told him she couldn’t sleep.
Before she could act on the raging curiosity that burned in her belly, she heard the echo of quiet voices from beyond the corridor—Quill’s among them.
Cistine glanced into Julian’s room again. Then she slipped down the hall.
It opened into a round parlor at the end, veined with wooden dividers hewn into branching tree limbs. Stone hearths burned on opposite walls and windows peered out over the home’s craggy stone steps leading into the city of Hellidom below. The voices came from a doorway on the left of the home’s front entrance.
Cistine hurried to the wooden divider beside the doorway, sinking down behind the tangle of its carved limbs and the gnarled trunk of its body. From this close, she could better hear the conversation.
“Yes, it’s worth it,” Thorne was saying in answer to someone’s question. “We were right about this shipment being different. And now we know why.”
“Devitrius,” Quill growled. “Nimmus’ teeth, Thorne.”
“A Kanslar official shouldn’t be able to purchase weapons out of season,” Ariadne mused in her steel-cold voice. “Kanslar isn’t permitted to make trade bargains for another month.”
“Then Maleck’s reconnaissance was accurate,” Tatiana said. “Devitrius is buying weapons from inside Benedikt’s Court, when he should be relaxing on the riches Stornhaz has to offer out of session.”
The ensuing silence held all the weight of a secret. Cistine pressed a hand to her mouth to quiet her breathing so she wouldn’t miss a word of what came next.
“Well,” Tatiana added, “at least this explains why Devitrius wasn’t made High Tribune of Kanslar when everything went to Nimmus in a knapsack. He’s still doing his private retinue duties. And now they’re planting him in other Courts.”
Cistine frowned. Thorne had declared himself as High Tribune earlier that evening, placing himself on level with her position.
Had he lied?
“If Mal is right, and the Chancellor has his greatest supporters embedded like ticks in the other Courts,” Quill said quietly, “this could become very ugly very quickly, Thorne.”
“I know,” Thorne sighed.
“It would be one thing if he was amassing wealth or luxury,” Ariadne said. “A few trunks of garments bartered out of season, then carried back to Kanslar when the stars rise…that’s nothing but predictable greed.”
“But not when Svarkyst steel is involved,” Maleck rumbled. “You remember how it sheared through Quill’s armor during the last raid?”
“Like chicken down,” Thorne answered.
“What we really need is more dragon scale armor,” Ariadne said. “But considering the high cost of that with the last of the drakons hunted out…”
“We’d never afford it,” Maleck said. “We were fortunate to steal some for Thorne.”
Tatiana snorted. “And who wants to go wandering north of the Isetfells to hunt more dragons?”
“At least we intercepted these blades,” Quill said. “That counts for something.”
“It counts for very little,” Ariadne argued. “Patrols along the Vingete Vey will triple. More Vassora will be pulled from the cities to defend the caravans, and that will leave the smaller villages in the territories with no one to guard them from real bandits when the autumn thefts begin. Not to mention, it will make our raids that much more difficult.”
“All because Stornhaz will learn it was not only common robbers ransacking the wagons all this time,” Maleck said.
Cistine winced. She didn’t need to be in the room to know every eye had just turned toward Quill.
“All those years hiding our movements among the other bandit groups…wasted,” Ariadne said. “All so you could spare a beautiful woman.”
“Leave him alone,” Tatiana snapped. “He was following his conscience. And we have a name now because of that.”
“You’re defending Quill,” Ariadne scoffed. “Will wonders never cease?”
“And what is that meant to imply?”
“The only implication you should concern yourselves with,” Thorne said, “is what will be asked of us if we can’t stop the shipments from now on.”
This time, Cistine wished she hadn’t heard the silence. It pulsed with the unthinkable.
“We strike the Black Coast mines directly,” Ariadne said. “Prevent them from turning up ore…at least for the time being.”
“It could never be done without casualties,” Tatiana murmured, her spat with Ariadne forgotten. “Miners. Prospectors. Men who provide for their families in Veran as well as the other territories. Every miner worth his rocksalt dreams of harvesting from the Black Coasts.”
“Even men from Blaykrone,” Quill said, equally soft.
“I know.” Thorne’s voice sounded heavy, as if the weight of his warriors’ fears had moved into his body, pressing his spine and shoulders. Bending him.
Cistine felt the same heaviness bear down on her. It flattened her flush to the divider, dragging her eyes shut with the sheer vastness of it.
“Then we’re in agreement,” Ariadne said. “The mines are a last resort.”
“The very last,” Tatiana said.
Thorne drew an audible breath. “Agreed.”
Cistine felt a stab of relief that there would be no more slaughters like on the Vingete Vey, no more flashing swords and bloodstained knives—at least for now. And now was all she could think of. One moment. One step before all the rest.
Smiling, she pried open her eyes—
—and found someone staring at her from across the room.
Cistine slapped a hand to her mouth again, this time to muffle her startled shriek. The woman almost blended with the shadows, she was so still. In fact, it was only her eyes Cistine saw, and a hint of her profile, both embossed in threads of moonlight.
The woman held Cistine’s stunned gaze for a moment, then slowly shuffled into the middle of the room, leaning heavily on a cane. She was old, her face stamped with sun lines, her stern brow ridged from years of frowning. In this household, Cistine could hardly blame her. But it wasn’t her face that made Cistine’s stomach churn; it was the state of her left leg.
The limb was a twisted mess, an unwieldly tool strapped to the old woman’s body, the foot mangled in half a dozen places and dragging uselessly with every step. Cistine had to force her attention up from the devastated limb to the old woman’s face when she halted before her.
Despite her wizened countenance, her thick silver braid, and that leg, her gaze gouged like a blade, snaking rapidly between Cistine and the doorway—perhaps judging how much she’d heard.
Cistine had been caught eavesdropping many times for gossip in Astoria, but this was different. It would mean death for her. For Julian and Ashe.
Her lips parted, but no sound escaped past her shaking hand.
The old woman stared at her for a moment longer.
Then she winked.
While Cistine still gaped, the woman hobbled into the room where the cabal gathered, shouting as she went: “Thorne! How often must an old woman beg? Hold your meetings somewhere else…I can hear you across the hall and past four doors!”
The moment the old woman passed her hiding place, Cistine tore from the room as fast as her blistered feet would carry her, sailing back down the hall, through the kitchen, and into her own room. She collapsed face-first on her bed and listened with heart throbbing in her ears.
But no one came to confront her. No one brought accusations, angry shouts, or drawn blades to her doorway.
Still, her mind churned beyond the last hope of rest. So many names…so much significance hanging on every word spoken in that room tonight. More than ever, Cistine yearned to train her mind, to learn what Blaykrone and the Isetfells were and what they had to do with Thorne’s cabal, and this steel. These blades that could cut through armor like bird down.
Shuddering, Cistine rolled onto her back. Clutching the pillow to her chest, she stared up at the ceiling with its web of different wood grains woven together. Just like these matters of caravans and Courts were woven together.
In the darkness, she whispered words and phrases, memorizing them until she could write them down: Isetfells. Blaykrone. The territories. The Black Coasts. Devitrius. High Tribune. Nimmus.
And that old woman…
Cistine had to find out who she was.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“WELL, AREN’T YOU a gleam of sunlight on a cloudy day, Princess?”
Quill’s greeting coaxed no more than a faint snarl from Cistine as she toppled into the chair across the table from him and helped herself to the heel of the bread loaf—all that remained from last night’s meal. It seemed she was one of the last ones awake, though the sun had barely peeked over the horizon. Quill sprawled against the table, gulping a mug of something hot and chicory-scented. Tatiana sat on the counter behind him, dressed to start the day and leisurely plucking apart her own portion of bread. When she caught Cistine’s eye, Tatiana slid off the counter and sauntered from the room.
Cistine stifled a sigh. That was how it was going to be, then.
Quill didn’t seem bothered by Tatiana’s sudden departure, finishing off his drink in two deep gulps. “If you want breakfast, you ought to at least attempt to be an early riser.”
“If this isn’t early, what is?” Cistine grumbled, buttering and devouring her bread in a few rapid bites.
“Let me say it this way: none of us has missed a sunrise in ten years.”
Cistine almost choked on her bread. “How can you stand that?”
He shrugged. “You acclimate, like with anything. From now on, it’s dawn revelry and training with me until the heat of the day. Afterward, Tati will have her way with you. Then you’ll rotate to Maleck, then Ariadne. I can’t begin to guess what she has in store for you, so…good luck, Stranger.”
His tone was casual, but he flopped his hair restlessly across his head. Cistine watched the ravage of mismatched locks, white eclipsing black and brown. “Why is your hair colored that way?”
Quill swallowed, his throat bobbing sharply. “A cosmetic accident. I don’t like to talk about it.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend.”
Quill palmed his locks again. “Hardly your fault. I’m particular about my hair is all. It happened a long time ago—before we came to the Den.”
“The Den?”
“That’s what we call this place.” Quill indicated the walls with a wave of his hand. “Because every savage creature needs a den to dwell in.” He got to his feet, tossed his mug into a wash bucket under the counter, then beckoned and strode from the kitchen, leaving Cistine to cram the last few bites into her cheeks and follow him.
They’d barely stepped foot into the outer corridor when Julian appeared in his room’s doorway. At the sight of his sleep-blurred eyes, the long sleeves of his shirt tangled against the heels of his hands while he stretched and yawned, Cistine’s stomach turned over with a delicious flutter.
“Off to train?” Julian asked, with a hint of scorn directed at Quill.
The warrior holstered his thumbs in his belt with a lazy smile. “That’s the intention.”
“I’ll be all right,” Cistine interrupted before machismo escalated the tension. “I’ll be back before noon.”
“Too long.” Julian took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Be careful, Princess.”
“You as well.” Though Cistine didn’t have a single notion what Julian would spend his morning doing in the city of Hellidom.
Quill led the way to the Den’s sprawling veranda. The sky was pastel blue, the distant, daydreaming colors of a whimsical life lived in peace. Cistine couldn’t believe she walked beside a bloodstained warrior under that forgiving sky.
“What happened to Faer?” she asked as they descended from the veranda.
“He’s on an errand for me,” Quill said. “I expect him to come back soon. I’ll let him know you asked.”
“Please do. He has the best manners of anyone I’ve met in your kingdom so far.”
Quill thumbed his nose, smirking. “I’m not sure if you just insulted us or complimented him.”
Cistine made a face at his back. There really was no shaming these cocky Valgardans.
Quill remained quiet as they crossed the city, offering perfunctory nods to a handful of townsfolk but keeping his gaze forward. That unbroken focus made Cistine’s knees lock with dread. No doubt he was thinking ahead to whatever rigorous regimen he had in mind for her.
This was going to be painful.
They reached a flat top of rock that overlooked Hellidom from the southern edge of the town, directly across from the Den with the breadth of the shops and homes between them. Under the shadow of the plateau above, Quill motioned Cistine to a halt and circled her with slow, lanky strides, keeping his thumbs hooked in his belt.
Cistine fidgeted. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to get a measure of what I have to work with. Are you really going to train in a dress every day?”
“I don’t have any other clothes.”
Quill snorted. “I’ll have a word with Thorne about that. But you might want to avoid disclosing it to Tatiana. She’ll drag you around to raid every merch in Hellidom.”
“Or she would more likely laugh at me for the rest of my life.”
Quill frowned. “Tati is a difficult character, but she wouldn’t want to see you suffer through training in a dress. Besides, she’ll take any excuse to visit the shops.”
While Cistine tried to reconcile that notion with the aloof girl who’d admired bloodstained knives and ignored her over breakfast, Quill finally halted, facing her. He pulled a spool of long white cloth from his pocket and wrapped his knuckles.
“How much formal training have you had?” he asked.
Cistine huffed at the tired question. “With the blade, until I was seven. I had tumbling and defense until I was nearly ten—hold breaks and such.”
Quill nodded absently, jerking the cloth taut with his teeth and tying off the ends. “And then?”
“That was the end of it.”
His eyes flashed to her face. “How old are you now?”
“Twenty.”
Quill cursed. “You mean you haven’t had any training in the last decade?”
“In my kingdom, we don’t make a habit of raiding caravans or beheading merches,” Cistine said. “We have peace.”
“We have peace in Hellidom, too,” Quill countered, “but you don’t see our muscles growing soft.”
“If you want to train your muscles so Thorne can brag of how you’re good for them and little else, you’re welcome to it,” Cistine snapped. “I prefer to be known for my mind rather than my fists.”
“It’s not just about what your reputation is,” Quill said. “It’s about having the strength to fight anyone who challenges it. Whether you’re known for your mind or your body.”
Cistine blinked, lost for a retort as Quill planted his feet apart and put up his hands.
“Land a blow here,” he tapped his left middle finger into his right palm, directly over the wrappings, “as hard as you can.”
“And that will teach me endurance?”
“It will tell me just how much we both have to endure before you’re competent.”
Cistine knotted her jaw, balled her fist, and lunged, driving her knuckles into the meat of his palm with all her might. She didn’t expect the pain that stabbed through her thumb and spiraled all the way from her wrist to her shoulder at the impact. She yelped, stumbling back, and Quill barked with laughter.
“Nimmus, that’s worse than I thought,” he said. “Have you ever had to actually land a punch in your life?”
“Princess, remember?” Cistine shook out her throbbing hand.
“And Thorne is High Tribune, but he could dismantle me in six strokes, and that’s if I was giving it my all.” Quill swaggered over to her, taking her arm gently and pinching his fingers around the skin. “You have no muscle tone. And the way you hit me, it was like you were trying to defeat yourself. Never punch with your thumb inside your knuckles. You’ll break it. And you have to step into the blow—roll it from your shoulder to your fist. It’s all in the shoulder and elbow, not really the hand. That just happens to be the part that lands.”
This close, Cistine couldn’t look away from the hideous purple-green dapple along his cheek. “Like Thorne landed his fist on you?”
Quill’s eyes flicked up to her face, then returned to her hand. “He told you about that?”
