Daughter of Dusk (30 page)

He looked her over again, and there was a softness in his gaze when he nodded. She leaned her head against the cave wall and closed her eyes. She’d only meant to rest a little, but a while
later, she was groggily aware of him laying her down on the cave floor and tucking his cloak around her. She reached out and took his hand. His grip felt so comfortable, so solid. And yet, there
was caution in his manner that hadn’t been there the night before.

“Tristam,” she said. “It’s not just Cecile that stands between us, is it? Even if I were higher-born, it wouldn’t matter. You’re scared of what I
am.”

He didn’t answer right away, and his hesitation spoke more than any words he might have said. For a moment she could see it in his eyes, his lingering fear and mistrust of the Demon
Riders, something he’d done an admirable job of hiding from her but was nonetheless still there. Kyra looked down, trying to ignore the tightness that had arisen in her chest.
“I’m not completely blameless in Santon’s death. I hoped he would attack me, and I pretended to be vulnerable so they’d give me the excuse I needed. Part of me liked tearing
Santon apart. I’m not proud of it, but I won’t hide it from you. I owe you that much.”

Tristam looked down at her hand. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy. “I don’t envy you, Kyra. I might have done the same or worse had I been in your shoes.”

He was offering her empathy, understanding, friendship. And though a selfish part of her wished for more, Kyra supposed that they didn’t have that luxury. Tristam brushed her hair away
from her face with the back of his fingers. The feather­light touch left a pleasant tingling on her scalp, and she let her eyes close. “Should you be getting back to the city?” she
asked him.

“They won’t notice my absence for a few more hours. Sleep for now. I’ll be here.”

T W E N T Y - F I V E

F
lick was getting better at spotting Demon Riders in the trees. Or at least he thought he was. He caught hints of movement in the corners of his
eyes when he walked near the forest, though when he turned and looked, he never saw anything for certain.

He was out behind Mercie’s house this afternoon. There had been a lot of activity on the roads earlier, and Flick suspected something had happened in the city. Mercie had gone in to hear
the news, and Flick watched the road, eager to know what had occurred.

But there was that thing that kept moving in his periphery. He supposed he should have been more nervous, but he suspected he knew what it was. Or rather, who it was. Finally, his curiosity got
the better of him. “Is anyone there?” he called.

Adele stepped out. Flick grinned. “I’m glad to see you.”

She smiled serenely in return, her amber eyes sparkling against her pale skin. That was a first. He couldn’t remember her giving him a full smile before.

“Are you well?” she asked.

“I am. Thank you.”

They stood looking at each other for a few moments. Finally, Flick gestured to the forest. “I was just taking a walk. Would you like to join me?”

“To see Kyra?”

“No, just watching the road. But there’s no reason I must do it alone.”

Her eyes brightened at this, and she fell in step beside him. They strolled just inside the line of the forest so Flick could catch glimpses of the road. It was his fourth time meeting Adele
now, yet he still felt off balance around her. He’d had his share of sweethearts in the past. Flick never had trouble talking to girls or making them laugh. But then, none of girls he flirted
with back in the city had been capable of turning into giant beasts. Not that he thought he was flirting with Adele. Who knew what these people’s customs were? It was enough of a triumph that
he hadn’t yet been mauled to death. But something about this lass fascinated him. Her quick eye and curiosity, her uninhibited openness in expressing her opinion, her never-ending stream of
questions for him.

Speaking of which, she was about to ask him another one. He could tell. Flick interrupted her. “You’re always asking me about me and my people,” he said. “I think
it’s my turn, don’t you?”

A few meetings ago, this sort of question might have made her jump back in alarm. But this time, she simply tilted her head, then nodded. “What would you like to know?”

“Well…” Flick paused. He hardly knew where to start. “What do you do most days?”

“Nights,” she corrected. “I hunt at night, and I wander the forest. Sometimes I gather with the others.”

“What do you do with them?”

“Talk, tell stories, sing.” She reached out and touched a tree branch with her finger as they walked past.

Sing? The idea of Adele as a songbird piqued his interest. “Will you sing something for me?”

He thought he’d have to coax her further, but she launched right into a quick song. Her voice was high and steady. The melody itself was unusual. It went up and down in finer increments
than the songs he was used to hearing. It almost reminded Flick of Minadan pipe tunes, the ones said to lull a sleeper into strange and curious dreams, but Adele’s tune was livelier and
happier.

“You sing beautifully,” he said when she finished. “Can you teach me this song?”

She sang a phrase for him to repeat, then covered a smile at his attempt.

“No good?”

“Your pronunciation is not the best,” she said gently.

He tried several more times until she deemed his performance satisfactory enough to move on. They continued like this, phrase by phrase, laughing at his mistakes and sending wayward phrases into
the trees. He’d almost made it through what he thought was the first stanza when Adele stopped him with a touch to the elbow. She was looking into the forest again.

“Some of your kin?” he asked, suddenly tense. Adele, he was always happy to see. But the others…

She stared in that direction, then shook her head. “It’s Kyra. And someone else.”

Kyra came into view a few moments later. Her face was smudged with dirt, and she moved like it hurt to do so. And was that blood seeping through her tunic?

“Kyra, what happened?” Then he saw Tristam a few steps behind her, looking equally beat-up and still wearing his Red Shield livery.

Kyra looked between Flick and Adele, confused for a moment, and then seemed to put the matter out of her mind. “Have you had news from the city?” she asked.

“Not today. But Mercie went in to find out what the excitement was.”

Kyra lowered her eyes. Flick could tell from the way her brows knitted together that the news was big, that it had to do with her, and that he wasn’t going to be pleased.

“Out with it,” he said.

She spread her hands apologetically. “Things have happened,” she said. “And we need your help.”

Flick knew that the Palace compound had two main gates, one in the north, and one on the south wall. These were the only ones opened on a regular basis. What he hadn’t
noticed until tonight was the presence of smaller gates. According to Kyra, these were usually double-locked and guarded, although select noblemen living within those walls had keys. A few hours
past midnight, a man had entered through one such gate, and now Flick waited in a nearby alleyway for him to leave.

He heard a faint metallic creak, followed by quick footsteps that echoed down the empty street. Flick ducked deeper into the alley as the man walked past. A few moments later, a shadow passed
overhead—Kyra was trailing him on the rooftops. Flick pulled his cloak tighter and settled down to wait.

Kyra dropped off the roof a short while later, landing softly in front of him. Though Flick could not see her face clearly in the darkness, he could hear her panting from exertion. Kyra was
dressed for work in a dark tunic and trousers, with her hair tied back in her characteristic ponytail. He’d seen her like this hundreds of times, and after all the craziness of the past few
weeks, it was nice to see her back to form.

Flick had been…less than pleased to learn what had happened at James’s execution. But somehow, after berating Kyra for her harebrained, risky scheme, he’d immediately agreed
to help her with another one. Kyra had argued that this new mission was important, and this time, Flick agreed. If there was any way to stop Willem’s Demon Rider offensive, they had to try.
Flick’s conversations with Adele had convinced him that peace with the Makvani was possible, but only if Forge didn’t embark on such a disastrous attack.

Kyra dusted off her hands. “The messenger’s staying at an inn called The Drowned Cat,” she said. “Not the most auspicious name for an inn, is it?”

“Mayhap it refers to the contents of their stew,” said Flick.

Kyra stifled a giggle as they made their way to the inn. The windows were dark, and the road was completely silent. They slipped into an alleyway across the street, where Tristam was already
waiting.

“I’m guessing he’ll leave tomorrow morning to blend in with the other travelers,” Tristam said.

Flick handed Kyra a large bag. “If he breaks his fast in the inn’s dining room, I’ll flip his purse then. And you, my delightful assistant, will need these.”

Kyra reached into the bag and fished out a long black wig, a trader’s tunic, and a pair of shoes, examining each in turn. Flick grinned when he saw Tristam eyeing the props with curiosity.
The wallhugger would be getting quite the education in undercity tactics today.

Kyra rounded the corner with the props. When she came back, she looked taller, thanks to the shoes’ well-concealed heels, and she boasted a head of luxurious ebony curls instead of her
usual brown ponytail. In the darkness, Flick could barely make out the intricately patterned leather knots decorating her tunic in the style of the southern traders. Trader women were some of the
few who might actually eat or stay at an inn. It wasn’t the best disguise, but it was the best Mercie had. Flick didn’t bother with a costume himself, thinking instead to blend in among
the countless tavern-going men. Though he’d grown out his beard since he fled the city. It always made him look quite a bit older.

They took turns watching the inn until light started to shine on the horizon and the city started to stir. When the innkeeper came out to sweep the doorstep, Kyra looked to Flick. “Better
if you’re already in the dining room when he comes in. Remember what he looks like?”

“Black hair down to his shoulder, a few years older than me. Small eyes. Mustache.” Flick wiped the dust off his cloak. “You’re paying for my drink, right?”

Kyra rolled her eyes and handed Flick a few coppers.

“The messenger came in late last night, and he might not be up for a while,” said Tristam. “Do you think it’ll be suspicious for Flick to be in there so long?”

Flick and Kyra exchanged a glance, and Kyra’s lips twitched. “Flick always thinks up something to do.” She turned to Flick. “Just, uh, try not to attract too much
attention, all right?” The last time Flick had done a day-long stint at an inn, he’d invented a drinking game where each drinker had to be at a higher physical location than the last.
The fallout had involved a crowd of people on the roof, multiple bruises, one broken limb (not Flick’s), and a warning never to step foot in The Bow-Legged Canary again.

Flick grinned. “Who, me?” And he sauntered off.

After a night out in the cold, the warm air of the inn’s dining room felt lovely, and the smell of freshly baked bread wafting out from the kitchen made Flick’s stomach growl. The
room was about half full as the earlier-rising patrons broke their fast, and Flick settled near a window. The serving girl was a friendly lass with dimpled cheeks who laughed at his jokes. She
brought him a plate of sausages, and he tucked into the meal.

He’d just about finished his sausages when he saw his mark. The messenger entered alone and sat down with the bristly body language of someone who didn’t want company. Flick washed
down his last bite of breakfast with ale, then put a little unsteadiness in his stride and strolled to the messenger’s table.

“Fine morning, in’t it?” said Flick, sinking onto a stool next to him. The messenger didn’t so much as glance at him. Flick had been about to recite some platitudes about
delicious food and beautiful serving girls but changed his mind when he saw the man’s scowl. “Of course, can’t quite enjoy it in this type of establishment. Second-rate food and
lazy serving lasses.” Flick sent a mental apology to the nice serving girl, grateful she was out of earshot.

Flick studied the man with a careful eye. The messenger was grumpy and standoffish. His clothes were unremarkable in style and color, but his tunic was of surprisingly thick and soft wool, and
he wore a finely crafted ring. Flick also noticed that the man’s hair and mustache were meticulously trimmed. Most importantly, he carried a small leather bag across his shoulder. That was
likely where his message would be.

“That’s a fine ring you’ve got there,” Flick said. “Impressive detailing. Must have been made by a master.”

The man straightened just the tiniest bit.

“What’s the design? Looks like one of the newer fashions out of Parna.”

It was just an educated guess, since everything seemed to come from Parna these days. But the messenger regarded him with new consideration. “That’s right.”