Daughter of Dusk (28 page)

Kyra reached into her belt pouch for four pieces of twine and threaded each one around a plank, tying them into loops. They’d be visible from the side of the wagon, but the wood was rough
and uneven in color, and she hoped that everyone would be paying more attention to the prisoner than to the execution cart. She crawled underneath and pulled the loops through, then threaded cloth
through them so that two long strips ran along the length of the wagon. She tested whether the strips could hold her, hooking her feet over them and spreading the weight of her chest and torso over
the length of her arms. It wasn’t comfortable, but she’d be able to hold on long enough. With those preparations in place, Kyra let go again and settled in for a wait. She didn’t
dare sleep, but she curled up under the wagon and tried to make herself as comfortable as possible on the hard ground.

Gradually, light started to filter in from outside. The padlock securing the outside door clanked, and Kyra hurriedly pulled herself up so she was flat against the bottom of the wagon. She saw a
pair of boots walk in. Metal clanged as the boot’s owners walked around, rearranging equipment. A few times, he threw something on the wagon, and Kyra felt the thud vibrate throughout the
frame. Finally, he pulled the wagon outside. If he noticed the extra weight on the wagon, he gave no indication. He hitched a horse to the front. Then a group of soldiers marched toward the
wagon—four sets of booted feet surrounding a pair of bare feet in tattered trousers.

The wagon rocked to and fro as soldiers lashed James to the wagon. The planks above Kyra warped with the extra weight, and she eyed the knots in the cloth that supported her, hoping they
wouldn’t unravel. James made no noise, and Kyra’s stomach tightened as a drop of blood landed on the ground.

It was an agonizingly long wait before the wagon finally started rolling. As they came closer to the Palace gates, Kyra heard the roar of the crowd, the anticipating energy. Then they were past
it and surrounded by jeering onlookers.

The cobblestones rolled beneath her, about two hand-widths below her nose. Kyra had to be careful not to stare too long at them, lest they make her dizzy. It would be easy enough to get sick
here, with her stomach tight as it was. Though she tried to spread her weight along as much of her body as possible, she felt a light numbness through her arms. Kyra flexed her fingers and shifted
her weight, doing her best to loosen up. She was waiting for a certain street just outside the merchants’ district, where the road became narrower and the rooftops leaned in close. That was
when she would make her move.

It was hard to navigate when she could see only gutters and the occasional building foundation, but she managed to keep track of where she was. The wheels in front of her tossed up stones as
they turned, and though she managed to dodge most of them, a few left stinging imprints on her skin. The mud was harder to evade, and Kyra soon gave up on avoiding splatters. Slowly, the wagon
neared the bottleneck. Three turns away, then two turns, then one.

Ahead of her, the street narrowed and the Red Shields on either side moved to the wagon’s front and back, though there was still enough room along the sides for someone small to squeeze
through. Kyra took one last breath. Then she dropped to the ground, scrambled between the still-moving wagon wheels, and pulled herself over the edge.

The scene hit her all at once. The wagon was in a narrow alleyway. Red Shields stood ahead of and behind it, facing a crowd of men, women, and children along the road. The bystanders pressed in
on the soldiers, though their screams quieted as Kyra stood up to her full height. She got her first glimpse of James as she drew her dagger. He was, as she’d expected, lashed to the
crossbeams on top of the cart. He was thinner than she remembered. There were fresh bruises on his face, and a patch of blood seeped through his tattered trousers above his knee. But his gaze was
still quick. In a split second, he took in Kyra’s dagger, the Red Shields around them, the hanging rooftops, and the hungry crowd around them. Comprehension lit his eyes.

Why should they dictate how we live and how we die?

“Would you choose the way you die?” Kyra’s question came out breathless. With the roar of the crowd around her, there was no way he could have made out her words. But she could
see that he understood nonetheless.

“Do what you came to do,” he said. His gaze was as intense as she’d ever seen it. Was he angry at her? Grateful? Kyra didn’t have time to wonder. Red Shields were
pointing at her and shouting, and she had to make her move. She closed the distance between them. He caught her eyes as she raised her knife to his throat, and such was the strength he projected
that Kyra could not look away. The edge of her blade nicked his skin, and still their gazes remained locked. One stroke, then it would be over, quick and clean. But Kyra couldn’t move.

The wagon rocked. Kyra cursed her hesitation and whipped around as a Red Shield pulled himself onto the back edge of the cart. She grabbed a pepper pouch and threw it at him. Her left-handed
throw went wide, but the second try caught the soldier square in the face, and he fell backward onto his comrades. Kyra pivoted and threw her remaining pouches at the guards on the other side.

Then, as red pepper dust still hung in the air, Kyra turned, gritted her teeth, and buried her blade in James’s stomach.

He shuddered once, the muscles of his throat tightening and his jaw clenching against the pain. As warm blood washed over Kyra’s hands, a memory came to her. She was on the floor of
James’s study, convulsing around his blade as she bled out onto his floor.
You could have gone far,
he’d whispered. The scar on her own abdomen throbbed in recognition.

She heard James’s voice again, and it took her a moment to realize that this wasn’t from her memory. He was speaking, though Kyra couldn’t make out the words. Her body was
tangled up with his. She still held her dagger, buried in his stomach, and she’d grasped the back of his neck for leverage. Kyra could feel a layer of sweat on his skin, his pulse growing
erratic under her fingers. As he struggled to draw breath, she tilted her head to let him speak into her ear.

“Choose your fight,” he said.

Then he slumped into his bindings, and the life left his eyes.

T W E N T Y - T H R E E

T
here was no time to pause, to wallow in what she had done. No time to clean her dagger, wipe James’s blood off her hands, or search his face
for any remaining message. The crowd was screaming. The dust had cleared. Two Red Shields, one on either side, jumped onto the wagon. Kyra thrust her knife into her boot and leaped for an overhang,
pulling herself up and away as the soldiers reached to grab her.

She sprinted down the row of rooftops, jumping between uneven levels and rolling when she took a long drop. But even as she pulled farther away from the wagon, Kyra realized she’d
miscalculated. She’d traveled these rooftops before and knew a path that would take her to the city wall, but she’d underestimated the crowds. They were everywhere, and already, she
could hear people shouting to stop the lass on the rooftops. She skidded to a stop at the last house and looked down into the faces of wide-eyed watchers below, packed so tightly she couldn’t
even see the ground. Kyra turned around to see Red Shields climbing up awkwardly after her. Then the first arrow struck by her feet.

Kyra scrambled away from the edge and crouched as another arrow soared over her head. The way forward was closed to her. Behind her, three Red Shields gained their footing and raced toward her.
Kyra hesitated a brief moment, then ran straight at them. The houses along this street had courtyards, and Kyra dropped into one, pressing herself between a row of hedges and the wall. She
wasn’t very well sheltered here. The hedge was only slightly taller than she was, about three hand-widths from the wall. An overhang from the roof offered some coverage from above, but there
was plenty of open space between the roof and the top of the hedge through which someone could see her.

Kyra struggled to calm her breathing as the footsteps above came closer. Her blood ran hot with the battle rage she was coming to expect every time she killed. Her fur called to get out, and
Kyra knew instinctively that to change form right now would take no effort at all. She thought for a moment about succumbing to the change, of exploding out of the hedges and onto the soldiers who
chased her. But there were so many bystanders around, and she didn’t know what she would do to them.

The shouts were all around her now, accompanied by thuds as men dropped onto hard dirt. Kyra peered through a gap in the leaves and counted eight Red Shields, though they moved in and out of
view so quickly that she couldn’t be sure. It would only be a matter of time before they found her.

She drew her dagger once more. But then, was she really expecting to fight eight swordsmen with a knife? No, there was only one way she could take on all of them. Kyra could feel the heat within
her, eager to come out. Could she simply change form and run for the walls? She didn’t hate these men like she’d hated Santon. Maybe she could control it this time.

A shadow fell across her. A soldier hung his head and shoulders off the rooftop, looking down at her hiding place. He opened his mouth to call the others.

Before he could speak, Kyra climbed, using the wall and the hedge for footholds, and gripped his tunic. He made an ill-fated grab for the roof but missed, and they both fell, stripping leaves
and branches from the hedges. Kyra landed in a crouch. The soldier landed face-first and groaned.

Before he could move again, Kyra jumped on his back and snaked her arm around his neck. A wave of battle fury hit her, the thrill of it as strong as the smell of his fear. Kyra had an
overwhelming urge to tighten her grip further, to hold the choke and not let go.

“There’s something moving back there,” said a voice on the other side of the hedge.

Kyra jumped back from the fallen soldier, trembling at how close she’d come to wringing his neck. As the man fell forward, coughing, she drew his sword and threw it away from both of
them.

“Go,” she hissed. “Tell your comrades to flee. This in’t worth dying over.”

She was ready with her dagger as he regained his feet, but he took one last look at her and fled around the hedge. Yells sounded from the other side. Commands. They were planning the best way to
surround her. Kyra heard the scrape of swords being drawn, and she cursed the discipline of Palace troops. Soldiers appeared at the ends of the hedge.

“Stay back,” she yelled again, but they only raised their swords.

Kyra tossed out one last desperate wish for control before she pulled off her shoes and threw her cloak to the ground.

When the shouts and screams first started, Tristam held rank with his fellow Red Shields. They stood at attention along the side of the road, scanning for any signs of
resistance and bracing themselves for the rush of people that would surely come when the execution cart passed their stations. He didn’t pay much attention to the ruckus at first. It was an
execution, after all—a fair amount of rowdiness was to be expected. And frankly, he didn’t have much energy left in him for alarm. He hadn’t exactly slept well the night
before.

Tristam had stayed awake long after Kyra left, unable to forget how she’d felt in his arms and how desperately she’d kissed him back. It had been such a relief to act on his feelings
for once, to stop being the responsible son if only for a moment. But once the dust had cleared, things remained the same.

I can
’
t. And neither can you.
He saw Kyra saying that, her eyes still bright, but grounded now with regret.

Kyra was right, of course. Tristam was to have dinner again with Cecile in another week, and he had no idea how he would look her in the eye, let alone discuss their marriage. Tristam had been
brought up with the expectation of serving his family through this type of alliance, and he’d long made his peace with it. But he’d never realized just how hard it would be. He
shouldn’t have kissed Kyra last night. It only made things worse. But somehow, he couldn’t quite bring himself to regret it.