Daughter of Dusk (22 page)

“How’d you manage to charm those two?” Kyra asked.

Flick held out the rabbit. “They liked the herbs I gave them. This was their way of thanking me. Feeling hungry?”

Kyra eyed the carcass. “Keep it. My cooking won’t do it justice out here.”

He handed her the bag of supplies that he’d brought. “The news from the city is bad. There’s a price on your head. Malikel’s been removed from Council duties and placed
under house arrest while the magistrate investigates.” Flick wasn’t one to follow politics, but even he knew that removing Malikel from the Council would upset the balance of things
greatly.

Kyra let the bag of supplies sink to the ground. “And Tristam?”

“Mercie didn’t say anything about him, but my best guess is that he’s also under investigation.”

Her gaze went distant at his words, and Flick watched as conflicting emotions made their way across her face. Flick still wasn’t completely sure what had happened between Kyra and Tristam,
but he’d eat his cloak before he believed that she no longer had feelings for the wallhugger.

“This is my fault,” said Kyra. “I can’t just leave them there to take my punishment.”

Flick sighed. He’d had a feeling she’d say that. “You won’t do them any favors by going back. What could you do?”

She looked at him, her jaw set in a stubborn line.

“Be realistic, Kyra. The Palace would just kill you on sight.”

He could tell she wanted to argue, but eventually her shoulders slumped. Flick relaxed slightly when he saw that she’d given up on that line of thought.

“There’s one more thing,” he said, pulling out the parchment Mercie had given him. “A man named Jacobo says he wants to talk to you.”

Here, she perked up. Kyra looked over the parchment with interest. “I asked him about Demon Riders a while back.”

“Says he’s got news and he’s wintering outside the city, if you want to talk to him. Is this about your family?”

She gave a careful nod, and he could tell she was afraid to hope for too much. Flick felt a twinge of compassion for her. He might not be thrilled with his own bloodlines, but at least he knew
where he came from. “Will you talk to him, then?”

She hesitated a moment. “Aye,” she said. “I’ll go tomorrow.”

“Want me to go with you?”

Kyra shook her head. “No, I’ll be better able to avoid trouble if I travel alone.”

As much as he hated to admit it, she was probably right. “Be careful, then, and let me know what you find out.” Flick looked out toward the forest. “I should probably be
getting back before my…escorts get tired of waiting.”

Kyra gave him one last hug, coming at him from the side to avoid the rabbit carcass he still held in his hand. “Good to see you, Flick. Go safely.” She took a step back, eyed the
rabbit, and then looked off in the direction Adele and Mela had gone. Suddenly, she burst out laughing.

“What?” said Flick.

Kyra shook her head. “I don’t know how you do it, Flick. I really don’t.”

S I X T E E N

N
ot much news filtered down to the dungeons, but when Kyra killed Santon of Agan and Malikel fell from grace, the Red Shields on duty talked, and
James listened. The news came at a time when the assassin sorely needed something in his favor. After weeks of imprisonment, James had fallen ill, and he was running out of time.

In some ways, the illness made things easier for James. It compressed his sense of the passing hours as he hung in his cell and dulled his pain during the interrogation sessions. Over the past
few days, his jailers had noticed his illness and had cut their visits short. James was thankful for it. The Palace hadn’t yet gotten any useful information out of him about the Guild, but
James knew his limits. He’d come close to breaking more than once. The Palace was determined, he’d give them that.

As the fever grew progressively worse, he spent less and less time awake. While before, he had done his best to exercise within the confines of his chains, he now drifted in and out of sleep. He
dreamed sometimes of Thalia, her eyes aflame with purpose. She faded in and out, and it was just as well. If she’d stayed longer, he might have been tempted to give up and join her, but he
wouldn’t give the wallhuggers that satisfaction.

James started receiving visits from a Palace healer, who mixed foul-tasting potions and poured them down his throat. Apparently the Palace thought him too valuable to die. She brought an
assistant, a scrawny young man who never quite stood up straight. James paid him no heed the first few times except to note that he stood quietly by the side and did as his mistress commanded.

Today though, James noticed that the apprentice’s forehead was covered with a sheen of sweat. Several times, he dropped the herbs he was supposed to be mixing. His mistress was too caught
up in examining James to notice, but James made note of it, even as he hung from his chains with his eyes half-closed. The apprentice was nervous, and that was interesting. Very interesting.

James had developed a grudging respect for the Defense Minister during his time in the dungeon. Malikel was smart. Much more competent than his predecessor, and he’d acted decisively and
quickly to counter any possible attempts to break James out. The guards who watched over him had proved hard to blackmail or bribe. But with the current trouble in the Council, maybe, just maybe,
there were now some holes in the Palace’s precautions.

James kept his body heavy and his movements lethargic. It wasn’t hard to do, with the fever pounding in his brain. The healer was finishing up now. She made notes on a piece of parchment
as the apprentice packed up her jars of herbs and gathered soiled bandages. He came to stand in front of James and inspected a bandage on James’s arm.

“Sloppy wrapping,” the apprentice muttered. His words were tight and clipped, and his eyes darted between James and the healer. He unraveled the bandage partway and pressed something
hard and flat against James’s arm before rewrapping. Then he lowered his voice even more. “Two days from now. Second watch.”

James wondered how Bacchus had gotten to this one. Bribery? Threats? He suspected the former. There was a glint of avarice in the young man’s eyes and not enough fear for the latter. He
hoped Bacchus had an adequate plan. To break someone out of the dungeons was no small task.

As the apprentice returned to his mistress’s side, James flexed his forearm and felt the pressure of the blade against it. It was small. Its shape suggested that it didn’t even have
a hilt. But if he was careful and quick, it would be enough.

S E V E N T E E N

K
yra knew where the trade caravans wintered. There was a cluster of clearings west of the city, and she’d run across trade caravans there a
few times when touring the woods with Tristam. It would take a while to get there because she’d have to avoid the main roads, and there would be some risk. Could this be a trap by Jacobo to
lure her in for the reward money? She didn’t think so. Jacobo hadn’t seemed the type to sell people out to the Palace. And this was one circumstance under which Kyra refused to be
careful. If Jacobo did have more information about her past, then she would learn what it was.

She set out early in the direction of the trader camp. It took her the better part of the morning, but eventually she noticed wagon ruts on a side path. A few more steps, and she smelled smoke.
She started to hear voices through the trees after a while, and shapes around what were now clearly several campfires.

A voice called out. “Stop there, stranger. What’s your business?” A man stepped out of the trees. Between his fur hat and his thick cloak, Kyra couldn’t see much of his
face.

“My name is Kyra,” she said. “I’m looking for Jacobo. Is he wintering here?”

The sentry looked her over, then waved her past. Kyra noticed other sentries in the shadows, both men and women, warmly bundled and holding spears like they knew how to use them. She kept a
mental note of where they were and the gaps in their formations.

Kyra broke through the trees and into a clearing where ten wagons circled a fire pit. When she walked through to the center, she saw Jacobo and four other men and women sitting around the
campfire. The trader was much as Kyra had remembered, though he looked more at home here, reclining at the fire, than he’d been in Forge. It took him a moment to recognize her.

“Kyra of Forge,” he said, extending a hand to her. “I’m glad I found you. It seems I’m not the only one looking these days.”

His words gave her a jolt, and she hesitated a split second before taking his hand. If Jacobo knew there was a price on her head, then he must also know what she was. But Jacobo’s
handshake was firm, and his gaze didn’t waver.

“I’ve run into some trouble lately, but I mean no harm to your camp,” she said.

“I certainly hope not.” He indicated the spear bearers. “We do travel the Aerins, and we have experience defending against dangers.” He smiled, and his eyes crinkled.
“But I didn’t call you here to deliver threats, and you needn’t look like we’re going to knock you over the head and deliver you to the Palace. There’s someone who
would like to talk to you.” He indicated another trader sitting by the campfire. The man’s hair was mostly gray, and his face was lined with wrinkles that told of a lifetime in the sun,
but he stood up with no difficulty, and his stance was sure. Kyra stopped dead in her tracks when she realized whom he must be. Jacobo had mentioned a survivor of the caravan attack fifteen years
ago….

Jacobo cleared his throat. “Craigson, this is Kyra of Forge.”

The older trader dismissed Jacobo’s introduction with a wave and swaggered over to where they stood. He then proceeded to look Kyra over from head to toe, as if evaluating a packhorse.
Kyra was just about to make a rude comment when the man crossed his arms and nodded in satisfaction.

“She’s not Kyra of Forge, Jacobo. She’s Kyra of Mayel.” Then he looked Kyra in the eye, and his gaze softened. “Your face brings up many memories, lass.”

Did he recognize her? Though this was why she had come, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this was impossible. She was an orphan. Her past was unknowable. To accept his words would be
like putting on a glove that belonged to someone else.

Craigson took a step closer. “I’ve startled you. I apologize.” He reached for Kyra but lowered his hand when she flinched. He spoke again, his voice thick with regret.
“In fact, I must beg your forgiveness for many things. You were under my care when I lost you to the Demon Riders, and I was never able to find you.”

Kyra’s tongue was dry in her mouth. She felt dizzy, and she probably could not have formed words even if she’d known what to say. The most she could do was nod when
Craigson suggested they go somewhere quieter to talk and follow him until they found a fallen tree some distance from the camp. As she sat and looked more closely at his face, she remembered a
dream she had the first time she was in the forest with Tristam. There had been demon cats all around her, and a man had been carrying her and running away.

This man, Louis Craigson.

“I was on your caravan when it was attacked,” she blurted. “You fled with me, and you smeared my face and clothes with some kind of pitch.”

Craigson sat as well, holding one of the fallen log’s protruding branches for support as he lowered himself down. “You remember, then,” he said, eyes trained on her face.
“What else do you remember?”

Kyra shook her head slowly. “I don’t remember much else.”

He let out a bark of a laugh. “Of course you would only remember the worst moments. You did have some good times with us, you know. You used to climb around my textile wagons and burrow
under the blankets.”

Kyra imagined burying her face in pungent silk as he said this, but who knew if it was a memory or just something she’d conjured?

Craigson continued. “The pitch you remember was to hide your scent from the felbeasts—demon cats, as you call them here.”

“You’re from across the Aerins?” Kyra asked.

“I hail from Edlan, but I was a Far Ranger much of my life, as I never had much use for dukes or cities. I crossed the Aerins often and traveled a route that went as far as your
mother’s village.”