53. Kira
Chapter 53
Kira
HE CAN’T HURT YOU ANYMORE
“ W hat the fuck was I thinking?” I whisper to the empty street.
The street doesn’t respond. Ahead of me, the gates of the Towers open into the gathering dusk. Two Guards stand just outside, one of them scratching himself, the other yawning into the back of his hand. It’s not the most intimidating sight, these two older men flanking a door that’s wide open.
I swallow hard. I’m wearing the same bland brown clothes as the Guards with a stubby little Guard’s dagger in my belt. I left the maid’s dress with the Castinacs, and thank the gods. I should just walk through the gate, like I have for the last three years. As if I haven’t been gone for almost two weeks, traveling on barges and carriages and my own aching feet.
But I feel like I’ve been gone a lifetime.
The carriage driver who met Lenore and me at the docks started talking about all the animals he’s killed as soon as I climbed up next to him and did not stop until he dropped us off at the crest of Fyher’s Landing, where the Castinac’s estate sparkles like a jewel in a diadem. A flurry of servants met us at the doors, because news apparently travels faster than carriages in Silver City. Lenore was swallowed whole by the crowd, while I stood in the doorway, twisting my fingers in the straps of the bag Zayne gave me until a large woman in a white apron pulled me aside, took me to a small room where I washed and took off the maid’s dress, and then met me in the hallway to ask if I’d be staying on with them.
The look on my face must have given her enough of an answer, because she pulled back with a frown, pressed a bag into my hand, thanked me for all I’ve done, and summoned a young woman to lead me out through the back door.
I hesitated when she opened the door. My father was somewhere in that palatial estate, and some small, wounded part of me wanted to ask this woman to take me to him. But I remembered what Lenore said about her parents never making empty threats, and I thanked the woman politely before turning my back on the Castinac estate.
I counted the money in the bag the woman gave me once I was in the alley. There was less in there than I’d hoped, but hells, I wasn’t going to go back and argue about it. The sounds of music and laughter drifted through the open windows of the Castinac estate as I walked past, heading down the hill and back to the heart of Silver City. The world of mansions and estates on Fyher’s Landing was closed to me once more, as it always had been.
Reznyk, though. He wasn’t born to it, but I could picture his dark eyes and sly half smile among the velvet and silk of Fyher’s Landing. Lenore would bring him in once she was free of her horrible husband. And he would fit that world beautifully.
With a sigh, I tug my hood up over my head. I’ve had all day to come up with some sort of plan to rescue Reznyk from the Towers, and the more I think about it, the more impossible and stupid it sounds. Reznyk was one of the four Elites, the strongest and best students of the Towers. He was sent to hunt and kill an old god. He’s the only human in the world who has magic, for fuck’s sake.
But the Towers captured him. And why in the nine hells would I think I could succeed where he had failed?
A man leads a donkey pulling a clattering wooden cart past me. The Guards greet him as the cart enters the Towers.
Shit. If he can walk through the gate, so can I. Right?
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and walk back into the life I abandoned two weeks ago.
“Evening, Kira,” one of the Guards says.
I nod. He’s Mitrik, one of the oldest Guards in the Towers. His companion grunts something that’s probably intended to be friendly, and I nod to him too. My feet cross the line of holes in the stone, anchors for the spikes of the Towers’s portcullis.
And then I’m in. Trembling, I raise my head and look around the main courtyard. The man with the donkey unloads barrels from his creaky old cart. Two Guards stand by one of the training dummies with their hands on their hips. One of them laughs, a cloud of steam rising from his lips into the cold, heavy air.
“Feels like snow’s on the way,” Mitrik says, from behind me.
I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or not, so I make a little cough of agreement and drift off in the direction of the dining hall. The doors are closed against the cold, but the clamor of voices pours through their wooden slats.
“Kira!”
I jump. By the time I recognize the man trotting toward me, my fingers are already locked around the hilt of my dagger and my heart is fluttering in the back of my throat. Benja stops just in front of me. Confusion ripples across his face.
“Shit,” I say, before I can stop myself. “I mean, sorry.”
I force my hand to relax and try my hardest to smile.
“Sorry,” I say again. “It’s been a long trip?—”
My voice dies as I remember I was supposed to be visiting the orphanage to take a break from life in the Towers. And the orphanage is literally next door to the Towers.
“You know,” I stammer, waving my hand in the air. “Long…stuff.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “Welcome back.”
He gives me a hesitant smile, and I remember the way he looked at me when I asked for permission to leave. Like there was something between us, some spark he was desperate to fan.
“I guess you heard the news, huh?” Benja says.
I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”
Benja frowns. He looks like a man who’s staring at his empty glass and wondering where his ale went. It baffles me that I ever found this man attractive.
“I didn’t think you’d come back until you heard,” he says. “We got him. You’re safe.”
I shiver beneath my brown Guard’s cloak. “Safe?”
“Yeah,” Benja continues. “You know, with your history, I get it. I’d want to leave too. But he’s locked up now. You’re safe here.”
“He’s—here?” I stammer. I try to swallow. My throat has gone completely dry.
Benja nods. The main courtyard suddenly feels very still, like the world is holding her breath, waiting for snow.
“Where?” I ask, as if it’s the most natural question in the world.
Benja grins. “Come on,” he says. “I’ll show you.”
Numbly, I follow Benja across the main courtyard, through an arched gateway, and across a smaller courtyard. He unlocks a door, and together we enter a room that’s large enough to hold a carriage, although its wide gates are locked closed from the inside. Benja lights one of the torches on the wall while I stand next to the door, shivering.
“I’m not supposed to do this,” Benja announces, like he’s proud of that fact. “But, you know, after what you did, I figure you’re entitled to see the bastard in chains.”
I make a vague sort of murmur that’s hopefully close enough to agreement. Benja pulls a ring of keys from his pocket.
“While you were gone,” Benja says, “they appointed me to Keeper of the Watch.”
“Great,” I reply, my eyes tracing the walls.
There’s a series of small doors set into the rough stone wall behind him. Ominous signs hang above each of them, filled with sketches of skulls and bright red X’s. The air is cold in here, and it’s oddly silent, as though it’s not part of Silver City at all.
This room is where they keep the magic, the Guards say.
Gods, I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“It’d be a good position to support a family,” Benja says.
I freeze. My mind shuffles through possible reactions as Benja stares at me with wide, dark eyes. Just like he stared at me in his office. His words come back to me, like a sliver of ice under my skin. They’re nothing like us .
For a heartbeat, I feel like I’m staring into a dark mirror. Would I have come to believe that, had I never met Reznyk? How long would I have clung to the vain hope that there was, despite all evidence to the contrary, something special about me and my heritage? And how long would that promise have blinded me to the casual cruelty of the Towers?
“Oh,” I finally stammer. “That’s, um, something to think about, huh?”
Benja turns away. He picks a long, slender key from the chain, grabs the torch he just lit, and then walks to the door in the middle of the room. The lock opens quickly, with no resistance. It would probably open just as smoothly with a pair of hook picks. The lock isn’t what keeps this place secure, after all. This door is protected by the Towers around it.
A long, dark hallway opens beyond the door. Fear traces a path down the back of my neck as I follow Benja through the hallway and down a set of roughly carved stairs. There’s another door at the bottom, one which Benja opens with a skeleton key that’s almost identical to the one in my kit.
“Don’t go inside,” he whispers, as he pushes the door open. “Just look from here.”
I nod. It’s dark in the room beyond the door, and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. When they do, my breath catches in the back of my throat.
Reznyk lies flat on his back on the stone floor, pinned at the wrists and ankles by heavy chains, like an animal awaiting slaughter. The thin hiss of his breath breaks the cold, still air; steam rises gently from his lips. His shirt is torn open at the shoulder and stained with something dark. A streak of dried blood traces a path across his cheek.
He must be cold, lying on the ground covered with chains. The manacles must hurt his wrists and ankles.
I step back, away from the sudden mad impulse to rush forward, to claw at the chains, to shake Reznyk until he wakes and uses his terrible magic to burn this whole damned place to the ground.
Would I have ever accepted this? If the Towers kept lying to me, or if by some miracle I lived in a world where I did have magical potential, how would I feel about chaining a human being to a cold floor? About taking a traumatized child and turning him into a weapon?
Benja locks the door and tucks the key ring back into his shirt. He shakes his head as he turns toward me. It’s a gesture that reminds me of Fyrris, and some distant part of my mind wonders if Benja knows who he’s imitating.
“You’re safe,” Benja whispers. “See? He’s knocked out, locked up. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
I take a gulp of air and wonder what exactly Benja was told about my mission to the Daggers.
“I know it doesn’t look like much,” Benja continues, with a glance over his shoulder, “but trust me, those chains are nightmare steel. And the Exemplars put so many wards on that door it almost burned down. If anyone with magic tries to cross it, they’ll know right away.”
“Th-thank you,” I stammer.
Anyone with magic, huh? For the first time since the Exemplars arrived at the orphanage three years ago, I’m grateful for my complete lack of magical ability.
I force myself to smile and hope to all the gods that he doesn’t notice how much I’m shaking. “I— I need to—to freshen up a little,” I say.
It comes out as a whimper. My voice is trembling just like the rest of me.
Benja nods like he’s granting me permission. I slip past him and practically run up the stairs and out of that cursed room and into the Guards’ dormitory, where I lock the door and dump Zayne’s pack out on the polished stone floor.
My lockpick kit is there. I unfold the leather flaps and run my fingers over the little picks and tension wrenches, the skeleton keys and rakes. I got damn good at picking locks in the orphanage, and the doors to Reznyk’s cell look just like the doors to the Archives, which I could open in my sleep.
“Okay,” I whisper under my breath. “Okay. I can do this.”
As for the magical wards, or whatever other magical bullshit the Exemplars have in wait?
Well, that will have to be Reznyk’s problem.