56. Kira
Chapter 56
Kira
WE CAN PAY
B reath leaves my lungs in a huge gust, like I’ve been punched in the gut. My feet slam into something hard. I gasp, blinking in the darkness as I bend over. The world swims around me. Something cold and wet lands on the back of my neck.
Reznyk sinks to his knees. I follow him down, our fingers intertwined, my vision pulsing with strange white dots. The ground is bitter cold and weirdly soft, like it’s covered with frozen feathers.
I blink. Not feathers.
Snow.
It was snowing when I snuck from the Guards’ dormitory to the horrible place where the Exemplars keep the magic just after the thirteenth bell rang. The snow was light then, enough to slick the cobblestones of the main courtyard but not enough to reveal my footprints in black against white.
But this is a storm. The veil of fat, white flakes falls like a beaded curtain, obscuring the edges of the buildings that surround us. I can tell we’re on a street, or possibly an alleyway, but not much more.
“Reznyk?” I whisper. “Where are we?”
He groans, then falls face-first into the snow.
“Shit,” I hiss.
I grab his shoulders and drag him back up to his knees, trying not to wince at the blood around his wrists. He looks very pale in the weak, snow-filtered light, and he’s already starting to shiver.
Damn it. It doesn’t matter where we are. We have to get out of the snow.
I shake my head, then stand up. It takes two attempts and a fair amount of stumbling around in the snow, but I finally get Reznyk upright with his arm wrapped around my shoulder. Together, we stagger down the sloping alley like a pair of drunks at the end of the night.
When we round the corner at the end of the alleyway, the wind throws snow directly into my eyes. I hiss as it stings my cheeks. Beneath the bite of the wind and snow, there’s the low, muddy scent of the Ever-Reaching River. Squinting, I can just make out the narrow fingers of docks stretching into the river and snow-covered barges rocking heavily against their pylons.
We’re still in Silver City, then. My mind races like the snow blasting past the end of the alley. This isn’t my usual neighborhood. What do I know near the docks?
I peek out from the alley one more time, looking for the round sign with a goose’s sharp, angry beak. And there it is, creaking as it rocks back and forth in the storm. The Next Best Gander. The pub’s windows are dark, which isn’t exactly promising, but it must be close to sunrise; even the heaviest drinkers are usually home by now.
I turn to Reznyk. He’s shivering next to me. His black hair hangs loose in front of his face.
“We’ll go to that pub,” I declare. “Unless you have any better ideas?”
He moans something, then shakes his head. Or just shakes in general. It’s hard to tell.
“Great,” I mutter through clenched teeth.
We limp down the narrow street as the wind howls around us like it’s trying to talk us out of a bad idea. By the time we reach the door beneath the round sign, I’m shivering as badly as Reznyk.
One storm a winter, that’s what Dame Serena used to say. Silver City gets one massive storm every winter, just to keep us all on our toes. This close to the river, I can hear icy pellets of snow hitting the surface of the water as wind blasts my face and tugs at my cloak. You’d have to be desperate to be out in this.
And here we are. Desperate.
I give the tavern door’s massive iron handle a half-hearted tug, and of course, it’s locked. What kind of idiot would leave the door to their pub unlocked in this weather?
With a sigh, I grab the knocker, which is also shaped like a goose’s head, and bang on the door. It’s loud, the metallic smack of the brass goose head against its setting, but even so, the wind takes the banging and throws it into the river. I stare at the dark windows, curse under my breath, and bang the knocker again. Harder.
Nothing. Reznyk starts to say something, but all I can make out is the chatter of his teeth. I ball my hands into fists and wail on the door like it’s to blame for the massive fucking mess I’ve made of my life.
And it opens.
I stagger forward as the door swings inward, revealing the dim glow of a candle in someone’s hand.
“Get inside,” a man says.
I hobble over the front step as the man grabs Reznyk’s arm, pulls him in, and slams the door shut behind us. The candle gutters, then goes out, leaving us in a room filled with shadows.
“I’m s-sorry about this,” I begin. “We n-need a room?—”
There’s a scrape, then a hiss as a match flares to life. The man brings the match to the candle. My voice fades.
It’s Zayne. He stares at us, twisting his delicate features into something that’s almost a smile.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt, before I can stop myself.
“This is my pub,” Zayne says, with a shrug. “I live here.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Swallow what I was going to say about him working for the Mercenary Guild and how I didn’t think they were allowed to live anywhere but the Guild, then open it again.
“We can pay,” I say.
Zayne nods. “Follow me.”
He turns, the candle in his hand, and threads a path between the empty tables to a narrow door in the back of the room. Reznyk limps after him, and I follow, watching the shadows. Zayne unlocks the door with a click, then swings it open.
There’s a hallway behind the door. The darkness inside swallows Zayne, then Reznyk, who makes his way with one hand pressed against the wall. My teeth sink into my lower lip as I contemplate the chances that Zayne is going to lock us away somewhere and sell us back to the Towers. But, hells, what choice do we have?
The hallway ends in a room. It’s larger than I expected, and far nicer than I’d have imagined, with a bank of windows that looks out over the dark curve of the Ever-Reaching River as snow swirls above it. Zayne bends down with the candle. It’s only once he steps back, his delicate features illuminated by the soft glow of a fire, that I realize he’s lit the hearth. Reznyk pulls off his cloak, hangs it on the wall, and then sinks onto the edge of the bed. He holds the mattress on either side of him like he’s trying to keep himself upright.
“Give me a minute,” Zayne says, with a strange shadowy expression.
Wind howls past the bank of windows on the far side of the room. The fire on the hearth crackles as it licks the dry wood, and a curl of smoke creeps around the corners of the room. Reznyk closes his eyes. He looks like he’s fallen asleep sitting up.
I need to go.
I’ve done what I can for him. He’s free, Lady Lenore Castinac is back in her city, and I’d rather choke to death than witness their happy fucking reunion. I stare at the windows, where the storm howls with all its fury just behind Reznyk’s shadowed reflection.
The Towers will be coming for me. Whether Fyrris saw me standing behind Reznyk in that dank cell or not, they’ll eventually put two and two together.
So, yes. I need to leave Silver City. Now.
The door creaks open once more, and Zayne returns. He’s carrying a tray with two steaming bowls, half a loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine. Reznyk’s eyes open as Zayne sets it down on the small table beside the bed.
“Just broth for you this morning, I think,” Zayne says, looking at Reznyk.
Reznyk nods. Zayne stands up, then tosses something to me. It glints in the firelight. I catch it, then open my hand. The golden butterfly necklace I found in the mud on Crown Day gleams in my palm.
“It’s a fake, sweetheart,” Zayne says, with a wink. “Real gold is heavier.”
I blink, then stare down at the golden butterfly’s delicate, lacquered wings. They’re studded with tiny gemstones that shimmer in the firelight. Those stones must also be fake, but how in the nine hells would I know? This is the only piece of jewelry I’ve ever touched.
“I— I can pay,” I choke out, again.
“I know,” Zayne says. “Get some sleep.”
He walks out of the room and closes the door behind him. I stare at the door, then at the snow dancing outside the window.
I need to go, damn it.
Reznyk picks up one of the bowls, drinks from it with slow, measured sips, and then kicks his boots off and lies back on the bed. His eyes close. Heat swells inside the room as the fire crackles and spits on its hearth. I stare at the bed with a longing so deep I feel its ache inside my bones. When was the last time I slept on an actual mattress?
I turn toward the window once more, where the wind whips ghosts of snow across the dark waters of the Ever-Reaching River. Yes, I need to go. But I can’t leave tonight. No barges will be moving in this storm, no carriages traveling on the roads.
I turn back to the bed, and a different kind of ache spreads through my chest. I can’t sleep that close to Reznyk. My heart already feels like a bleeding open wound. Closing my eyes and pretending we’re back in the cabin together is only going to make everything worse.
With a sigh, I grab a blanket from the foot of the bed, spread it out on the floor, and lie down on the cold tiles below the window while the wind howls above me. Give me an hour, I tell myself as my eyes close. I’ll leave in an hour.
Maybe two.