Lightfall, p.39
Lightfall, page 39
“Look at me,” Aden growled, and Sander slowly did. “You know me. You know what feats I am capable of. I will bring her back.”
Slowly, Sander’s face steeled. “Well, not alone, you won’t.” He stood up from the arm of the sofa. “Lend me some of that Siralek steel, Hive Lord. We’ll teach these bandayos never to trifle with our cabal again.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
“WHICH CAPTIVE ARE we looking for?” Cistine’s voice felt too loud in the dormant confines of Beryl Avenue, hurrying down its tawny surface with Thorne beside her, his silver hair still windswept from scouting with Ashe and Bresnyar.
“We’re searching for Kyost’s family portrait,” he explained.
She almost slipped on the glass-smooth street. “We’re risking our lives for a painting?”
“Not just any painting. He gathered his family’s ashes after their pyre burning and had them mixed into paint. The portrait is quite literally his family.”
She scrunched her nose. “That’s disgusting.”
“I agree, but his attachment to it still means Salvotor has him by the throat until it’s retrieved.”
Cistine shivered, her quiver and bow rubbing against her spine. Across the sleeping city, the cabal was on the move, dark arrows shooting straight and deadly toward their five targets—all but Quill in pairs. Saychelle and Pippet were back in the courthouse, safeguarded by Sander’s lovers on the off chance Salvotor had a contingency in mind for them; the cabal could afford no distractions tonight.
At the end of Beryl Avenue, Cistine and Thorne emerged onto a long wharf jutting directly into the Ismalete Channel, and he motioned her to turn right. “Bresnyar caught the scent a quarter mile north of here.”
“The portrait will have to be somewhere not too dry or damp, hot or cold.” At Thorne’s raised brows, she added, “My mother collects art.”
“Well, the harbor air will take care of the damp. As for the dryness…”
“Elevation. It needs to be high above the water. But the heat and cold…”
“Straw for insulation.”
Cistine glanced at him. “That’s oddly specific.”
He cast out an arm, bringing them to a halt where the docks ended in a dark, broad plaza. Unlike the well-tended streets they’d crossed to reach it, this avenue was devoted to labor, not luxury, hosting only a long line of gray storehouses. From the windows of their upper lofts, thin reeds of straw poked loose.
“Dry, dark, and temperate, to keep the wares from spoiling,” Cistine murmured. “Thorne, you’re brilliant.”
He squeezed her shoulder and pushed her down into a crouch against the wet wood. “There.”
A man crept toward the third storehouse from the shadows, looking both ways before he unlocked the door and slipped inside. Ghostlight burned around his broad frame; then the door tumbled shut and all was dark again.
Thorne gripped Cistine’s elbow and tugged her into an alley beside the dock. “The windows at the top look in through one another. If you position yourself in the adjacent building, can you shoot that distance?”
“I think so. But I’ll be firing into darkness.”
“Not if you track me. I’ll use a fire augment as a beacon, go blade-to-blade with these bandayos and give you the light you need.”
Cistine nodded. “Then if you break the glass, I’ll shoot through the window.”
“I’ll make it my first priority.” He portioned a small ember of a fire augment into his palm, leaving only an inlaid glow along his armor threads, the reflection dazzling in his eyes. “Go swiftly and safely, Logandir.”
“You as well.”
Dark armor blending against equally-dark cobblestones, she raced across the docks and skittered toward the storehouse on the left. It was a risk, moving across the enemy’s face, but she wanted the harbor lights at her back—the best chance of seeing what she was shooting at.
Swift and steady, hand-over-hand, she vaulted the ancient storehouse, grateful there were no other windows through which Salvotor’s men might spot her besides the one she needed to break, and the one at her back when she reached it.
The moment her fingers grazed the sill, fire whipped out, smashing the door of the adjacent building to kindling; then came the shouting and the slick slide of swords into flesh as Thorne went to war. Cistine broke the glass with a crack of her elbow and climbed inside, slinging the bow from across her body and fitting an arrow into the string as she pivoted to keep watch.
Two minutes passed; then the window in the neighboring building blew out under the slam of a man’s head, his mop of chestnut hair flopping limply as Thorne dropped him in the broken windowframe and whirled back to confront the rest of Salvotor’s men.
Cistine notched, aimed, and fired so smoothly and quickly her muscles burned from the strain, plucking off anyone who came close to her selvenar’s ember-glowing armor. For minutes, her world was nothing but bow and quiver and sight; she was so focused on bringing down the men around him that she didn’t even have time to scream when an arm circled her throat from behind, yanking her from the window.
In her burst of shock, the arrow bounced out of the bowstring; with his free hand, her attacker yanked the weapon from her grasp and tossed it out the window. Cistine finally caught the breath to bellow in fury, and Thorne, blades locked with another enemy, swiveled toward the window. His opponent drew a hidden knife and slashed across his cheek.
Knife.
Cistine’s terrified brain revived. As her assailant hauled her away from the window, she freed one of her blades and jammed it into his kneecap. He buckled, howling, and brought her down with him, rolling on top and pinning her smaller frame with his greater weight—
And suddenly she was in Kalt Hasa, Grimmaul’s blade at her neck.
A scream ripped her throat so brutally, the man flinched. When his weight rocked back, she freed her arm from under her chest and plunged her blade backhanded into his shoulder, slamming her heel into his groin and cracking her head into his chin all in the same motion. When he slid away, she whirled on him, jamming the knife straight through his eye.
Horror choked her when he twitched and floundered, crumbling backward, dying in spasms. It cost all her strength to tear her eyes from his gruesome, blood-washed face. Gagging, she crawled to the window, gripped the frame in shaking hands, and shouted Thorne’s name.
He appeared at once; blood soaked his left cheek, and the fire had gone out of his armor. But he was alive.
“Are you all right?” he called.
She wiped a shaky hand down her face and forced a nod. “The painting?”
“Unscathed. Can you get to Maleck and Ashe and help them?”
She took rapid inventory of herself; her heart throbbed so hard she thought it might fail her, she was nauseous and shaking, her mouth tasted of old meat and salt—but she was unharmed besides the tightness in her throat where the man choked her. “I can do it. Take the painting. And be careful, Thorne.”
At his deft nod, she grabbed the windowsill, clambered down from the loft, and retrieved her bow. Despite the fall, it remained battle-ready, just like her.
Lashing it around her chest, she ran.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
ASHE FLATTENED HER back against the broad schoolyard arch and cursed as another augment blew a chunk of stone from beside her shoulder. Across the archway, Maleck twisted his head toward her, reflecting her frown; they’d nearly reached the front door before Salvotor’s men unleashed fire augments from the open windows, forcing them to fall back this far.
“Almost makes you miss the war, doesn’t it?” Ashe called over a pause consuming the half-ruined courtyard.
Maleck’s gaze fluttered down from her eyes to her chest. “I was under the impression your dragon flew quicker than this.”
“Give him some credit, he’s done a lot of flying the past few days.”
“Maleck! Ashe!” Cistine barreled into view down the street with bloodsoaked hands and bow strapped on, flattening herself against the arch beside Ashe. “Are you two all right?”
“Yes, but Tribune Hallvard’s children might not be for long,” Ashe grunted.
“Logandir, your bow.” Over Cistine’s head, Maleck and Ashe exchanged a glance.
“Can you shoot the augurs in the windows?” Ashe demanded. “Distract them so we can reach the doors?”
Cistine nodded. “But I need enough light to see by, and I didn’t bring a light augment with me.”
The hair rose on Ashe’s arms, and she grinned. “It’s being handled.”
A draconian roar pierced the air. Shouts of shock and fury rang like school bells, and Ashe whirled around the arch as Bresnyar descended in a mighty punch of wings and talons, spewing his own fire across the courtyard.
“Now!”
Side-by-side, Ashe and Maleck raced toward the door. Halfway across the broken-up courtyard, the air crackled like the atmosphere before a summer storm, then settled when a bowstring twanged; an augur toppled from one of the windows and smashed to the ground, his lightning augment wasted. Then another. Then another. Bresnyar slammed into the building’s face and clawed up, reaching inside to pluck out Salvotor’s men and hurl them to the cobblestones.
They reached the door at last, and Maleck crashed into it, rebounding and cursing. He smoothed his hands over the frame more slowly this time, then withdrew like it burned him. “It’s sealed with an augment from the other side.”
Ashe shoved him toward the lowest window, more than a head’s height above. When Maleck reached the wall, he put his back against it and cupped his hands. With a running leap, Ashe stepped into his palms, and he thrust her up with all his might. Breaking the glass with her elbow and dropping inside, she turned back to watch Cistine tear across the courtyard; the remaining augurs were too busy fending off the dragon to worry about her.
Maleck heaved Cistine up into the window, and she and Ashe reached down together and helped him inside. The moment his feet touched the floor, they all broke into a run toward the school’s central wraparound staircase. As fit as Ashe was, even she panted up its height, her lungs burning and a stitch blossoming in her side when they reached the uppermost corridor—and came to a stumbling halt.
The last augur, blocking the door at the end, had a hostage in his arms.
Hallvard’s daughter trembled, gazing at Ashe, Cistine, and Maleck with tearstained eyes. She was so small the man easily trapped her one-armed, his knife grazing just below her ear—one slip away from spilling her throat.
“Drop your weapons,” he hissed.
Maleck cast down his sabers and raised both hands. Ashe lowered Odvaya more slowly, keeping her eyes on the girl. “What’s your name?”
“A-A-Abitha,” she sobbed.
“You hear that?” Ashe addressed the augur. “She’s a little girl with a name. You don’t want to do this.”
“And I won’t, if we get what we want,” he spat.
“Nothing has been done yet that cannot be forgiven in the Courts,” Maleck said. “But if you draw that blade against her skin, High Tribune Hallvard will bury you.”
The man’s mouth jerked in a fanatic smile. “And when Chancellor Salvotor becomes ruler of all Valgard, I will be pardoned.”
Maleck went very still. “Unfortunately for you, the only one you will seek pardon from is the Undertaker.”
He grabbed Ashe’s neck and pushed her to her knees. Cistine’s arrow cut swift and silent over them, embedding in the man’s forehead. He slammed back against the door, dropping the knife and the girl. She screamed as she fell, a pained, panicked sound.
Ashe scrambled forward on hands and knees, grabbing Abitha, rolling her over. Blood spilled down her neck from under her ear.
Swearing, Ashe scooped her up. “Mal, Cistine, get the other two!”
She soared down the steps, Abitha’s body jouncing in her arms, blood soaking her armor as she bolted down the hallway toward the front door. The augur who kept it shut was gone, but the door itself was still sealed, and the girl in her arms was too pale, no longer whimpering.
Then the door burst open in a thousand daggered shards, knocking Ashe on her haunches and sending her skidding back several feet. She shook grit from her eyes and squinted through Bresnyar’s golden light, his tail raked bloody where the naked patch had scraped the door. Quill stepped over the wreckage and fell to his knees beside Ashe and Abitha.
“Tell me you have a healing augment!” Ashe shouted.
He was already freeing the flagon from his pouch with one hand, resting the other on the girl’s forehead. But when he held the augment aloft, he hesitated.
“What are you doing?” Ashe snapped. “Heal her!”
Quill slowly sank back on his heels, eyes fixed on Ashe’s face. He shook his head.
Ashe clutched Abitha’s limp body to her chest. “No. Don’t you dare…”
“Look at her.”
She forced herself to, for the first time since she picked her up in that hall: death-white face. Blue lips. Eyes closed.
She couldn’t have been any older than Pippet.
“Gods-forsaken bandayos,” Ashe rasped. “A child.”
Quill gripped her shoulder and leaned his temple against hers. They were still sitting that way when Maleck and Cistine found them, carrying the other children—the elder on Maleck’s back, Cistine with the younger on her hip.
There was no sound of victory from them. Only the oldest boy’s sob when he saw his little sister dead in Ashe’s arms.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
SO, THIS WAS Darlaska—a night of revelry and fighting never to be forgotten, half of it a blur, the rest popping too vividly in Tatiana’s mind. Her body hummed with exhaustion, slumped on the parlor sofa between Ariadne and Pippet. Only the presence of all five Chancellors kept her eyes open, and the absence of their friends—of Quill.
Thorne paced, dragging a hand through his hair, and Aden reclined at the wall with his head turned, casting glances out the window; both looked as weary as Tatiana felt, and they had every right to be. Thorne had carried a portrait twice his height all the way back to the courthouse; Aden had fought an entire cabal’s share of men with Sander, setting Mira free, then joined her and Ariadne rescuing Taj of Yager Court—its true High Tribune, a crucial gamepiece Salvotor never even knew he held. Tatiana had almost lost a hand in that fight, wrist still throbbing from a Svarkyst cut and only still intact thanks to Ariadne’s intervention.
Her head shot up when the door opened at last. Eyes red-rimmed, Quill led the others inside. Maleck limped slightly, clutching his side; Ashe’s brow was cut, blood running beside her eye; Cistine trudged as if she might faint with exhaustion at any moment.
Thorne stopped pacing, bent with relief. “Report.”
“We lost one of Hallvard’s children,” Ashe croaked. “But the other two are with their mother and father now.”
Tatiana swore, and Ariadne shut her eyes, lips moving in silent prayer. Pippet crossed the room and leaped on Quill, and he lifted her to wrap her arms and legs around him, burying his face in her hair.
“Mira?” Cistine asked.
“Safe,” Aden assured her. “Being seen to by medicos, along with Niklause’s grandchildren and Taj.”
“You all did well,” Thorne added. “And we’ll pay our condolences directly to your High Tribune, Bravis.”
The Chancellor rubbed his creased brow. “You should have come to us at the beginning of this.”
“There was no time. I believed lives would be lost if we didn’t act on Sander’s report. If that was offensive to you, then I apologize for the offense. But not for my choice.”
“Men like you are impossible to shame.”
“But you should not be shamed for this,” Maltadova interceded. “Your retinue has proven its strength and nobility once again, Thorne. Not only are our High Tribunes indebted to you, but we are.”
“And if the report you gave is true,” Benedikt muttered, “then the rest of Valgard is also in your debt.”
“There is no debt,” Thorne said. “Not to me.”
Cistine rubbed her cheeks and asked quietly, “What happens now?”
Bravis and Maltadova exchanged a glance. Valdemar stroked his beard with long, bony fingers. “We proceed as if it never happened, because that is the greatest retribution possible. Tomorrow, the High Tribunes will decide, based solely on the evidence of the trial, of course, that Salvotor is guilty of a heinous crime. We will do this the legal way.”
Quill let Pippet down to the floor, eyes glinting with fury. “He tried to manipulate the entire Court system tonight!”
“Yes, he did,” Bravis said, “and I’m certain it will catch up to him.”
The Chancellors all smiled like wolves with teeth bared over fresh game. Tatiana had never seen them so like-minded, as if they were sharing a secret no one else in the kingdoms would ever understand.
It was terrifying.
Benedikt stood. “Well, I’m off. I’ll see you all in the courtroom tomorrow.”
One by one, the others followed him from the parlor—all except Thorne, who shut the door.
For a moment, silence. Then, with a weary groan, Thorne stepped forward and gathered Cistine up against his chest. Aden took Ashe and Maleck by their shoulders and knocked foreheads with them, and Tatiana met Quill’s eyes. He offered her the smallest grief-stricken smile, guiding his sister to sit before the hearth. Faer swooped from the nearby windowsill and settled on Pippet’s lap, and Tatiana leaned her head against Ariadne’s shoulder.
“I don’t think I like Darlaska,” Pippet said. “Let’s never do this again.”
Cistine burst into shaky laughter. “I promise it’s not usually like this.”
“With you?” Tatiana said. “I have a feeling it will be.”
Sighing, they all settled onto the couches and seats, and Tatiana shut her eyes. Just five minutes, then she’d drag her aching carcass to her room, bathe the blood from her hands, and try to forget the latter half of the night ever happened.
