Lightfall, p.22
Lightfall, page 22
Shackle and Gag and Water and Infection. A pleasant combination.
Yet even on the worst days, when she sweated out enough of the sweet water to feel the sickness raging under her skin, she remembered other things she was.
Rain-dancer. Beast-slayer. Someone she hated had called her that, long ago. Fearless.
Someone else called her that. The man who was Tether and Heart. The one she…
There were no words for it. They were all lost.
She gave them nothing when they changed from watering her to hitting her, to hanging her by the back of her neck over the cliffs, and back to the feeding and watering. Kindness and cruelty in waves, a vicious scale weighed in the palm of Kashar’s hand. The leader, the man who decided her fate; the one with split knuckles from breaking her nose. The friend with the rations and kind touches. The stranger with the endless waterskins and glowing jars in his hand. The enemy who tried to make her forget who and what she was.
Rain-dancer. Beast-slayer. They soaked the gag, the only way to force water into her when she decided she’d rather die of dehydration than fight against her mind and heart, forever in conflict over what she should tell them. Fearless.
She was not a Warden, Kashar reminded her. Disgraced. Discarded. Her King didn’t want her. No one was coming.
A week passed. Then more days after that.
No one came. Still she didn’t yield.
They took it all away from her. Warden. Warrior. Asheila Kovar. Ashe.
Rain-dancer. Beast-slayer, she chanted in her mind while Kashar split her face open again. Fearless.
“Tell us about the Princess!” he roared.
Rain-dancer.
A blow to the gut. “Tell us what she’s doing in Valgard!”
Beast-slayer.
“Kashar!” One of his men shouted. “Trouble!”
Kashar dropped her and snapped a kick into her temple.
Fearless.
The darkness claimed her again.
Her head was clearer when she woke—clear enough to know she wasn’t where they’d held her for…days? Weeks? Gods knew how long.
Rounded walls. A cold echo of breath and murmuring voices.
Cave.
“What news from Camere?” Kashar’s voice. Hated. Trusted. Enemy. Friend. Even now, she wasn’t sure.
“It’s done. The tunnels at the northern border were precisely where she claimed they’d be.”
She. Had she told them—?
“It was too close,” another man growled. “Had we not moved camp when we did—”
“My uncle would’ve had our heads,” Kashar muttered. “I’m aware.”
Keeping her eyes tightly shut, she wriggled slightly closer to their voices, the better to hear the next man’s words: “Good that Reema made it to Valgard. She’ll find the truth of this fallacious treaty soon enough.”
Shock cracked through her, a whip of clarity so sharp she nearly opened her eyes and gave herself away.
She. Valgard.
A Mahasari in Valgard—where Cistine was fighting to solidify the treaty. If Jad’s eyes were there, if someone made it through the siege tunnels Talheim dug below the borders, then none of this mattered. A few days, weeks perhaps in Valgard, and their spy would know the truth. And Jad would make good on his every threat against Talheim.
She flexed in vain against her bonds, struggling to dredge up strength and name and purpose through the absolute roaring in her head, the need to flee, to run. Nevermind that her King thought her a disgrace. Nevermind that the kingdom of her birth didn’t want her. She would do this one last thing for them, crawl if she had to, to finish it. To warn them.
The next words from her captors stopped her cold. “Reema’s all we need. This woman is no longer of use to us. It’s time to be done with it.”
Kashar sighed. “I know.”
Those two words sealed her fate.
Ruthless fingers closed under her elbows, ripping her to her feet. She struggled to plant them, but there was no purchase on the slippery stone. A man on each arm—Kashar’s familiar balsamic scent on her right—they dragged her from the cave, the whipping rain of a Talheimic windstorm lashing across their faces.
They’d climbed up one of the tallest mountains, the cave overlooking a sheer, dizzying drop to the tufted trees. The ledge was so gods-forsaken narrow, and Kashar and his man heaved her to the edge and dangled her over so she looked down into the void below. Into death itself.
It was different this time, the way they held her over it. She fought to marshal her wits, crying clarity back into her mind.
“This is your last chance,” Kashar shouted above the pounding rain. “Tell us about the treaty!”
Mouth slicing in a wicked smile, she angled her head to look up at him. “Hoping to win favor with your uncle by breaking me before your spy comes back?”
Shock broke in his eyes, and she seized the chance, barreling her weight forward and ripping free of their arms. She swiveled, knees screaming against the rock, her ankles hooking Kashar’s and her head slamming into his companion’s belly, knocking the wind out of him.
But the impact dazed her, too. The wound on her temple opened back up; hot blood streaked her cheek as she shoved herself down the ledge a few inches—and stopped, panting. She had no weapon, not even her hands and feet to help her run. Just an addled head, a fever-hollowed body, and the necklace burning hot over her heart.
The necklace. The starstone. And the memory of Sigrid’s voice, a storyteller’s cadence on a dark, disastrous night.
Some call them the Eyes of the Gods. In the ancient epics, they were used to summon aid from all corners of Valgard.
With nothing to lose, nothing left at all but the perilous edge before her and Kashar climbing to his feet, bleeding from the mouth and swearing, she flipped onto her back, hauled the glittering stone from her collar in her teeth, and screamed with all her might, “Gods! Someone, help me!”
Kashar’s boot slammed into her back, flipping her over the edge.
The descent was oddly silent. Oddly long, at least in her mind, seconds stretching out between every shocked, hopeless, raging thought. That it should end like this, after the war, after the Blood Hive, after everything—
Fitting. Fitting that when she’d fallen so far, a fall would kill her.
Some quiet part of her, mangled and raw, gave way.
Then a roar like thunder shattered in her ears. From the clouds embracing the mountaintops, a streak of pure gold ignited, a falling star spearing down from above, growing larger, closer, falling with her—
Another roar, burning the rain to steam, and fire erupted across the sky. That falling star barreled into Ashe, lighting her up, turning her to flame as well. Her head snapped back and shadows puddled across her vision as her body impacted.
She wasn’t certain if it was unconsciousness or death that greeted her in the darkness this time. But she welcomed it either way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THREE VISITS TO Kadlin’s grand house turned up no evidence of the thief, in the treasure room or anywhere else. Thwarted, Tatiana, Quill and Pippet attended a guild meeting together instead, searching for any trace of guilty faces or suspicious actions among them.
Though it was difficult to admit it, she wanted her valenar and his sister to meet these inventors. She wanted Pippet to enjoy herself somewhere that wasn’t school, and erase the scowl Quill had worn ever since Saychelle’s testimony. She wanted them to feel what she did: a sense of belonging in this safe place, so unlike anywhere from their past.
It was one of the better evenings in recent memory. Pippet sprang on Athlis and Vohrun like a beady-eyed raven the moment they were introduced, and that was the last they’d see of her for the evening. Morten brought them around to every face Tatiana had yet to meet, and some she already had, proudly introducing his Dievka and Afiyam with an arm around each of their shoulders. When Kadlin finally swooped in to rescue them, leading Morten off to see her latest designs, they snatched glasses of clean cider from a tray and reclined on one of the sofas by the hearth, watching the people mill around.
“There are a lot of them,” Quill mused, rubbing Tatiana’s bare feet propped on his leg. “Somehow I imagined a couple of people like Mort, scribbling on papers and not speaking to each other. But this…”
“They’re like a cabal of their own,” Tatiana finished.
“Right.” Quill swigged his cider. “So, what are they helping you with?”
“Nothing. What makes you think they are?”
“You’re getting out of bed earlier and earlier these days, creeping around behind my back, stashing tools in the armoire’s false floor. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that look in your eye, Saddlebags. You only get that right-side dimple in your smile when you’re fixing or making things.”
She thumped him on the shoulder. “Maybe if you spent less time staring at me and more time searching for someone suspicious, we’d be through with this hunt sooner.”
“I can’t help it. You’ll always be the most captivating scoundrel in any room.” He planted a kiss on the corner of her mouth, then lounged back against the arm of the sofa. “Keep your secrets if you want, just remember I’m not a fool all the time. I know the real reason you wanted us all here tonight. You can’t stop thinking about it ever since Kadlin showed us her gallery.” He tapped his fingertip against his cider glass, forging gentle, tingling music. “You really love it here, don’t you? With these people.”
“All except the thief.”
“I’m saying if there wasn’t one, and if you didn’t have Pippet and me to think about…”
“But I do. So it’s pointless.”
“Tati, just listen to me. If you didn’t find the thief, if Kadlin wanted you to go along and keep searching in Blaykrone…”
“But she won’t, because she knows my answer. So let’s stop talking about it.”
Quill’s gaze locked on hers, all traces of humor gone. “Would you go?”
She was saved having to answer by Pippet and Athlis tumbling onto the sofa with them, laughing about delivery devices and wrestling for Vohrun’s freshly-decapitated body. Quill intervened in their tussling, and Tatiana turned her attention to the people around them.
They all looked so happy. Certainly some were poor enough to profit from stealing plans from Kadlin, but if she didn’t find that traitor before winter’s end and Kadlin had no choice but to bring them along unaware of their identity, what would become of the guild? What if that thief needed mynts again, and another invention was within reach?
Despite what she told Quill, she wondered how different things might be if she were to carry on her investigation after they’d gone—carry it on from within Heimli Nyfadengar.
They left with empty hands and no leads long after the rest of the guild dispersed. Kadlin waved off Tatiana’s apology with a tired, heavy smile. “I didn’t really think you’d solve it tonight, but I’m glad you came anyway.”
They departed in a storm of Pippet’s chatter about Vohrun and Athlis and wondering aloud if she should start inventing things. Quill nudged Tatiana and grinned, but she barely bit back a curt reminder that all these people were leaving soon anyway; it would do Pippet’s heart no good to take up inventing only to go after it alone when the guild left.
They traveled only a few blocks before Pippet cut herself off mid-word, yelping, “There’s Inez and Solara!”
Tatiana squinted ahead through the ghostlit gloom to where a pair of girls Pippet’s age stood on the curb, frantically waving. “What are they doing out so late?”
“Solara lives near here!” Pippet flagged an arm over her head.
“Pippet, come with us!” The smaller of the two girls yelled. “Solara’s father just brought home a trained eagle from the Kroaken hatcheries!”
Pippet whirled toward Quill, eyes shining. “Can I go?”
“It’s late,” he said.
“I know, but there’s no school tomorrow!”
“What about training?”
She perched her hands on her hips. “The trial, remember? Aden says no more training until after Deja’s testimony, he’s too busy with Mira. But I promise I’ll be ready to train whenever he is, Quill! Promise.”
Tatiana slid her hand into the crook of his elbow and squeezed hard. When he glanced down at her, she shook her head, and he deflated. “Be back by midnight, or it’s the last time.”
Pippet flung her arms around his middle and squeezed with all her might. “You’re the greatest brother there’s ever been in the Three Kingdoms! Thank you!” Before he could return the embrace, she scampered off to link arms with her friends and drag them off down the street.
“You don’t have to like it,” Tatiana reminded him, “but change is part of time marching on.”
“I know.” His eyes cut sharply to her, then gentled. He brushed a ringlet behind her ear. “I know, Tati.”
She freed herself from his molten stare and tugged him the opposite way from Pippet. “So. No sign of anyone suspicious.”
“Not a glance.” Quill seamlessly matched his stride to hers. “I asked around the markets, and nothing that’s being pawned off around the city sounds like the plans, either. I’ll keep looking, though. I just have to wonder what Mort was working on that someone went to this much effort to steal.”
Tatiana shrugged. “I don’t know. Most of Papa’s inventions are inspired, but I’m not certain they were worth this much effort to take.”
“And Kadlin hasn’t told you what it was, either?”
“Apparently, she never got the chance to look closely at them herself. Maybe we ought to just ask Papa.”
“I wouldn’t, not yet. Seeing him with her tonight, I can understand why she’s keeping it from him. Saw the way he looks at her, too.” Quill stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked away down the dark street. “I’m just not sure that man can take one more broken heart.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
IT WAS FINALLY chilly again, those flirtations between summer, autumn, and winter sliding back toward the cold of the later months, and Cistine leaned gratefully against the grand room’s outside wall to cool her sweating back. Unescorted and dressed in fighting armor, she stood apart from the assembly at the Tribune’s feast—even Yager’s true Tribunes, patterned in ombred red-orange gowns of different cuts and styles.
This was nothing like Talheim, which followed a set course of welcomes, mingling, a seated dinner, and dancing at its celebrations; Valgardans flowed from one activity to the next and back, mingling, dancing, plucking at the serving trays and tables, lounging on sofas, then back to dancing. It was nearly impossible to hold a conversation, though she’d tried to with Liv, Astrid, and Ingrid, the archer guards escorting Maltadova and Adeima tonight.
As for the Tribunes, few had time for her. They chatted among themselves, trading jokes and jabs, and most regarded her with something between curiosity and disdain.
Grimacing, she traded her weight on her sore feet, letting the pain dull her frustration. She’d been on the move since sunrise, training and then reading while she paced, preparing for this. She needed a way in with some of the Tribunes to make them see, as perhaps their Chancellors were beginning to, why Talheim’s cause mattered.
With a rustle of fine threads, his dark jacket and pants glinting in the ghostlight strung from the rafters, Thorne sidled along the wall to recline beside her, offering a plate of roasted chard and feta. “Rallying for the next wave of the siege?”
“Was there a first one?” She nibbled a chard stem and watched the ever-changing pattern of Tribunes shift again through the sprawling room. “The only people I’ve managed to speak to are already allies. Tyve and Skyygan don’t want anything to do with me, I can tell by how they look whenever I approach.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Well, if they know me, the cause I fight for becomes personal. It’s harder to ignore a kingdom’s plight when it’s the people’s plight instead.”
Thorne nodded. “So, how to intimate yourself to people too wounded by Salvotor’s schemes to trust again.”
Cistine searched his strong jaw and intelligent eyes for a hint of the furious, cold leader she first saw when he brought her to Hellidom all those months ago. Then she grinned. “How, indeed?”
She plucked the plate from his hands, set it on the floor, and pulled him into a dance.
Valgardan waltzes were not so different from Talheimic ones, the tunes strange but the steps roughly the same. She’d watched the Tribunes and Chancellors ebb and flow to the music long enough to mark the patterns, and to her relief, Thorne hesitated in none of them. He followed along her scheme like it was his, guiding her in the dance while she paid attention to the Tribunes coming and going around them.
“Niklause and Kyost,” she murmured as they twirled past the two men chatting at the edge of the dance. “High Tribunes of Tyve and Skyygan. How well do their fellow Tribunes like them?”
“Skyygan brims with infighting,” Thorne said just as quietly. “There are rumors Noaam is searching for ways to unseat Kyost and become High Tribune in his stead.”
Not a good first mark, then. “And Tyve?”
“They respect their hierarchy better. Almost too much.” Thorne twirled her out, then brought her back into his chest. “They’re insular and secretive. All the poison studies, all the trickery behind their backs…they trust no one like they trust each other.”
“Beholden to their craft. It’s the sinew that knits their Court together.”
“One might say.”
With a graceful half-step, she changed the direction of the waltz, turning them back toward the room’s edge where she let go of Thorne, grazing the tips of her fingers with his in silent farewell. Then she latched onto Niklause and pulled him into the dance instead.
Whether out of surprise or dignity, the older man didn’t break her grip, falling naturally into leading the steps as everyone on the floor followed suit, changing partners fluid as a stream.
