Lightfall, p.24
Lightfall, page 24
Palms slammed into a table and a shrill voice cried, “That’s not fair!”
Cistine stiffened and rocked back from Thorne, catching his wide-eyed horror rising to match hers at that familiar voice. She spun out of his lap, and he shot to his feet beside her, turning toward the gambling table where the commotion emanated.
On the other side of the tavern, Pippet gambled at a table full of men twice her age. One of them rose slowly to his feet, towering above her, and in that instant Cistine saw an echo of herself—the girl who rarely argued with anyone who didn’t love her, choosing the wrong fight.
Thorne started toward the table, and Cistine grabbed him under the arm. “No! Dancing in a tavern is one thing. If a Chancellor starts brawling in the streets…” She met his burning, frustrated gaze. If word of such an act reached Salvotor, he’d try to twist it; the tenuous trust of the other Chancellors might waver even more. “I’ll handle this. Slip outside and meet us in the alley back the way we came.”
Thorne touched her jaw. “Careful, Logandir.”
He snatched up his jacket, and they parted ways: him toward the door, her toward the gambling table. She only made it two strides before the situation escalated from terrible to worse: Pippet spat something Cistine was too far away to hear, but the ringleader at the table, a brawny blond man, snatched her by the collar and yanked her close. “What did you say, girl?”
Cistine reached them and laid a hand on the man’s wrist, letting him feel the power of a well-trained sparrer in her touch. “Thank you for finding my sister. I’ve been looking everywhere for her.”
The man glanced down at her flexing fingers, then at Pippet. “This little cheat belongs to you?”
Cistine forced a cold smile, though anger tightened her mouth. “I’m responsible for her, yes.”
“Good! Then I expect you’ll pay back every mynt she just stole from us with those quick hands.”
Cistine tightened her hold, pressing beneath the hinge of his wrist. “Pippet doesn’t cheat. Now let go of her.”
Scowling, the man obliged. Pippet snapped back on her heels, straightening her collar—and three cards tumbled from her sleeve.
Cistine gaped at her. Pippet peered up through her lashes, teeth bared in a sheepish smile.
The man roared, first in rage, then louder in pain, because someone flung a wine jug hard from his left, cracking him in the temple and sending him sprawling into his friends. The woman who’d beckoned Thorne to the dance floor now beckoned Cistine and Pippet the same way. “Run!”
Cistine grabbed Pippet by the hood and dragged her from the tavern on the woman’s heels, three furious cardplayers in pursuit and the ringleader bawling at them to teach Pippet a lesson she’d never forget.
They burst outdoors and banked left, shooting down the street. No sign of Thorne anywhere between the dark buildings, and fear stabbed into Cistine’s chest. What if this was some sort of trap? What if someone else had been lying in wait for him?
Pippet yelped, digging her heels into the colored cobblestones as two of the three gamblers appeared at the end of the alley. Cistine slammed to a halt as well, letting go of her hood and spinning to face the other man prowling up at their backs.
“Flee or fight?” the woman panted beside them.
Cistine glanced at Pippet. “Fight.”
It was a quick but violent tussle; as large and brutish as the men were, Cistine, Pippet, and their savior had sobriety on their side, and one was trained by the former Lord of the Blood Hive, one by the entire cabal, and the third by someone clearly just as capable. In a matter of seconds, Cistine had one man down with a sprained ankle and a broken nose. Pippet tripped another and rammed into his back elbow-first, flinging him against the alley wall in a choking daze. With the battle-blood inherent in the Valgardan people, the woman landed two swift punches on the man enclosing them from the rear, snapped his wrist, wedged his arm behind his back and knocked him to his knees. Then she grabbed his head in both hands and twisted sharply.
“Stop!” Cistine’s shout overlapped Pippet’s horrified scream. “You don’t need to kill him!”
She froze, then slowly released the gambler. “I wasn’t going to. Only scare him off from chasing small girls.” She chopped his throat, and he folded down in a retching heap.
A shadow annealed at the alley mouth, and Cistine’s bark of warning turned to a cry of relief when Thorne stepped into view, breathing hard as if from running, blood on his knuckles. “That was the fourth. It won’t be the last.”
“Go,” the woman said. “Talheim’s Princess and Kanslar’s Chancellor can’t be found at a scene like this. What it will do to your reputation and your treaty…”
“She’s right,” Thorne said. “We need to leave.”
Cistine backed away, keeping her eyes on their unexpected savior. “Who are you?”
“Daria.” She glared toward a swell of shouting from the tavern. “Now go, will you?”
Pippet grabbed Cistine’s hand, and with Thorne at their backs, they fled deep into the grayness that was nearly dawn.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed at this hour?”
The mild, cool words were the first Thorne spoke since they left the alley, and now they were nearly to the courthouse. Even Cistine winced at the quiet edge in his voice.
Pippet scuffed every step heavily, shrugging. “Quill said I didn’t have to be back until midnight.”
“It’s almost dawn,” Cistine pointed out dryly, and Pippet groaned, burying her face in her hands.
“And I suspect Quill would’ve taken a different stance entirely if he knew what you were doing with that time.” Thorne took Pippet’s shoulder, steering her around a chink in the cobblestones she couldn’t see. “Why were you in a tavern?”
Another shrug, sliding his hand from her arm. “Schooling isn’t for free. I know they’re only letting me stay because you’re a Chancellor and Quill’s your friend. I’ve been trying to help earn the mynts back, that’s all.”
“Been trying?”
Pippet dropped her hands, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. “Since school started. Evian’s uncle owns that tavern, we go there after classes sometimes. And sometimes I go at night, too. The betting is better after dark.”
Thorne rasped both palms down his stubbled cheeks. “Who taught you to play cards like that?”
“The cabal did. Julian did. You did.”
“I’m fairly sure I didn’t teach you to cheat.”
Pippet sighed. “Well, no. Inez and Solara taught me that.”
“Friends from school?”
She nodded. “But they didn’t want to stay as late tonight.”
Thorne slowed, then halted as they reached the top of the bridge stretching across the Ismalete Channel to the courthouse. He squinted at Pippet, not in anger, but like he was trying to sort her out. “I’m grateful that you want to do your part, but mynts won by cheating do more harm than good. If you want to earn a portion in this city, I can find you a trade.”
Pippet raised her gaze to the height of his navel. “At the library, maybe?”
“The public outhouses, to start. But once you’ve proven you can earn an honest wage, I’ll see what I can do.”
She slumped in resignation. “Fine.”
“And no more sneaking out. No more gambling. If you’re caught in another tavern, you’ll face the law’s judgement. And it will not be as pleasant as mine.” She gave a sullen nod. “Can I trust you to heed my word?”
A beat. Then another nod—firmer. Still, she was the picture of dejection, wiping her nose on her wrist and examining the bridge between her boots. “You’re not going to tell Quill, are you?”
Cistine glanced at Thorne. He held her stare a moment, then looked at Pippet. “Do you not want me to tell him because he’ll be unreasonable, or because you did something wrong and you know he won’t like it?”
Pippet scuffed her toe on the ground and shrugged.
Thorne dropped on his heels before her, taking her shoulders in his hands. “In this cabal, we don’t run from our mistakes. We confess them and make amends. That’s what keeps us strong, keeps us together. So, no, I’m not going to tell Quill. Because—?”
“Because I’m going to.” Pippet sulked a few seconds longer, then finally raised damp eyes to his. “Will you come with me?”
Thorne pressed a kiss to her brow. “Of course I will.”
“And I’ll leave you to it.” Cistine stifled a yawn with her hand. “I’m going to bed.” And privately, perhaps cowardly, she didn’t want to witness Quill’s heartbreak at this fresh reminder his sister was growing up, as capable of being crafty as the rest of them.
Thorne straightened to his feet, guiding Pippet with an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Logandir.”
A promise. And in his eyes, warmth and softness lingered from a night of casual intimacy like they’d never had before.
“Oh, Thorne. I think you were right,” Cistine said. “It’s already a new day.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
DEATH WAS DARKNESS. Peace. Dreaming. Cradled in wind and wreathed in fire, she drifted, unmoored from every sense of self. Identity. Purpose.
Whatever came next, she was ready. Fearless. Resigned.
Death was dark walls and iron bars, a litany of prayers raised in solitude and captivity. Death raised its head and looked at her with eyes of bright hazel shining in a gaunt face—an anchor to her spirit.
You do not die. Stay awake. I will find you.
Bitter irony. Not even Death wanted her.
She woke suddenly, thrust out by Death’s vicious hands, pain arcing across the wounds on her face. A strange sound broke the world, broke her chest, her throat, and she realized it was her, sobbing with all her might, the words tearing out of her.
Just let me die, I’m done, I don’t want to do this anymore.
The heat banked, steadied, wrapped around her.
Sleep, Life whispered back. Sleep, and all will be well.
She didn’t open her eyes—didn’t want to cling any tighter to living.
Tell me who you are, Life crooned.
Beast-slayer. Rain-dancer. Fearless.
She was not afraid of Death when the darkness reached for her, wrapping her in its smothering arms. She was afraid she would have to wake again.
The pain had dulled when she surfaced next, yet the heaviness in her chest was greater now that the fever burned away, the addling of her mind settled. She knew what she wanted—that she’d begged for death and feared to live.
This was the bottom. This was breaking.
It was waking on a narrow cliff, curled on a bed of moss and leaf to the low throb of a face broken by Mahasari bastards, of cracked ribs and infection still hot in her wounds. It was knowing she was rescued and realizing it might be worse than what awaited at the end of that mortal plunge from the mountain. And it was shock blunted to nothing but a whisper when the soft thrum of a great wind moved behind her, and she rolled onto her other side to find herself staring at her savior: a great, golden dragon.
They stared at each other for a moment; then his maw tumbled open, spilling saliva-damp leaves and herbs on the rock ledge barely large enough for both of them. Morning dew sparkled like opal tips on his hide, and his massive head cocked as he watched her with eyes the exact color of a flame.
She ought to feel something more than this emptiness in her chest, this hole where most would carry wonder or terror or surprise at beholding a Great Dragon. She barely had the strength to wonder why he was carrying leaves, of all things. She’d been rescued from death by a gods-damned dragon, and it sparked no feeling in her.
Finally, the dragon sighed. “This is typically the moment where humans scream and beg for their lives.” She couldn’t even muster a shrug, and those glittering gemstone eyes narrowed. “I know you can speak. You told me your names while you thrashed with fever.”
Beast-slayer. Rain-Dancer. Fearless.
She was worthy of none of them. That fever had burned away whatever remained of the Hive fighter, the Warden she’d once been; all that was left was the fearlessness, unafraid of death and this beast who could and likely should swallow her whole.
“I thought Talheim hunted dragons to extinction four kings ago.” The first words out of her—begging for a reaction.
“And I thought it trained its damsels to put daggers in our eyes.”
Damsel. The word sparked a low burning she quickly smothered, refusing its warmth. “I know you. You’re that dragon Cistine told me about. The one who carried her and the others from Kalt Hasa.”
“Astute. I believe I know you, as well.”
A mirthless laugh rashed her throat. “That would make one of us.”
He settled into a crouch, wings tucked close around his body. “You are the one they tell tales of in the North. Beast-slayer. Rain-dancer.” A pause while he considered her. “I’ve been searching for you.”
“Kill me, then. Get it over with.”
“If I wished you dead, I wouldn’t have plucked you from your fall, would I? Nor would I have subjected myself to chewing herbal packs day and night for your face. It’s going to scar, you know. But you’ll live.”
She waited for those words to matter, to inspire some sense of purpose or hope. But there was nothing.
The dragon heaved a steaming sigh. “Not since our kind first taught man the Old Language has there been one so inept at common speech. Now is where you thank me.”
“I’m not thankful. I don’t…”
I don’t want to be alive.
Exhausted, aching to her very core, she stared at the dragon. He stared back, his mocking expression folding into something quieter. “Then why did you call for aid?”
Her hand fell to the starstone dangling against her throat. Why had she called out? A desperate instinct for survival surpassing her own wishes? Was self-sabotage all she had left—an endless life of stealing the things she wanted from herself? “Why did you answer?” she deflected.
The dragon gazed at her fingers on the stone, and there was no question now—something did soften in his gaze. “It has been many, many moons since someone called to me through a starstone, since I was deemed worthy to be anyone’s help. Nearly two decades by your mortal reckoning. When that call sang to me through a world that fell quiet twenty years ago, how could I not come?”
She let her fingers fall to her side, holding her up on the rock. “Well, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you wasted your time.”
“The Great Father does not make mistakes. Of all the creatures in all the lands in all the world, that call came to me…the one already searching for rumors of the beast-slayer, the rain-dancer of the Blood Hive. And here I find you, a kingdom away, and your call came to me. What is that, if not fate? If not destinies entwined?”
“A cruel joke.” Exhausted, she settled back on the leaf bed. “I’m not those things anymore. I’m just Asheila Kovar.” Hollow, dull words with nothing to give them meaning anymore. She no more knew who Asheila Kovar was than a stranger on Astoria’s streets.
The silence lived and breathed, full of thought while she shivered, stroked by the brisk autumn wind swirling through the mountains. Then bright, golden warmth enveloped her as the dragon settled at her back, curling his massive bulk around her body. “And I am just Bresnyar. But perhaps together, we could be something more.”
She snorted and offered no reply. It wouldn’t take long for that cruel optimism to fade. He’d dragged her back from death’s threshold; now she’d show him every honest inch of the thing he’d saved.
Then he’d be gone like the rest of them. And she could finally fade away in peace.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
IT WAS HAPPENING again.
Kalt Hasa’s dark walls around him, shadows locked like fetters over his wrists and ankles. But it was not Cistine his father attacked this time, it was Ariadne, her heartbroken face turned to him, eyes full of betrayal that he didn’t help her, that he couldn’t break free even to save her.
He hadn’t stopped any of it. Hadn’t spared her this trial or protected her sister or kept his cabal safe like he swore.
His cabal—
Kalt Hasa’s walls became catacomb tunnels, a prison of rock and steel grates with Aden trapped on the other side, reaching out to him, a plea for salvation on his lips. But though Thorne’s heart ached, his feet turned and he walked away from the man who’d been like his brother, who raised him like a father and loved him like the other half of his own heart.
Shadowed arms twined around Aden from behind and dragged him screaming into the pits of the Blood Hive, and Thorne just walked away.
He jerked awake from that, retching, flinging off the sheets and shifting to rise from the bed—but he couldn’t. His legs wouldn’t move.
Gripping the sheets in a trembling fist, he stared at his lower half, willing his toes to wiggle, his feet to press into the bed. Nothing. Only spectral sizzles of pain along his nerves—then gone.
Breathing hard, tears slipping unbidden down his cheeks, Thorne watched his body fail him. And he could do nothing about it, couldn’t help himself—just like he hadn’t helped his family.
It seemed like hours before Cistine said his name from behind the door, though he couldn’t muster a response. It cracked open, and he felt more than saw her relieved smile when she spied him sitting up, awake. “There you are! Didn’t you hear me call you? You missed breakfast, I waited forever for—”
“I can’t move.”
The voice didn’t sound like his. The words couldn’t be his.
Cistine halted on the periphery of his sight. “What?”
“My legs. I can’t feel my legs.” He raised his eyes to her, desperate, barely swallowing his panic.
Cistine came to the side of the bed and sat, running her hand up his bare leg. He might’ve felt immodest any other day, wearing only a pair of flannel half-trousers ending midway down the thigh and having her fingers on his calves and knees and feet, but he was too terrified to be embarrassed. “You can’t feel that?”
