Chapter 4 Skylar
“Skylar, just get on the bloody stage, will you?” Aldric—appearing dark-haired, dark-skinned today—moves toward where she’s leaning against a stone wall, just offstage from where Amara is doing her signature dance with brightly colored scarves. A dance that looks totally ridiculous, frankly.
Skylar inspects the dirt under her fingernails, not bothering to look at Aldric even as she hears the grind of his teeth.
No doubt he’s holding an illusion around them so the gathering crowd can’t see him forcing her to perform.
She can see them, though—it’s an even bigger crowd than yesterday, people stopping on their way to the harbor, where the witch party will be arriving later today.
The city feels like it’s at bursting point, excitement and impatience and something else, something darker, lacing the air.
Skylar doesn’t feel particularly strongly about anywhere they set up camp—a place is just a place, after all—but she doesn’t like it here, and not only because the city has taken Cam from her.
“Skylar, I swear to Arach, if you don’t get out there in the next thirty seconds—”
“You’ll what?” she asks, still not looking at him, even as he moves closer, trying to threaten her with his size.
“I’ll withhold your pay for this month,” he snaps.
She shrugs. She and Cam have been saving, aiming to set up on their own one day—and Aldric sometimes withholds their pay for no good reason, anyway.
“Or,” he continues, and she can hear the anger he’s trying to hold on to, “I’ll let Torin practice a thing or two on you.”
She does look up at that, narrowing her eyes. He would. He’s let Torin have playthings plenty of times—although Torin has always come down on the “helpful” side of the line for Skylar so far.
But she draws back her shoulders. “I’ve told you my deal.
You help me get intel on Cam, and I’ll perform.
Otherwise…” She looks pointedly over to Amara, as if to say, That’s the best you’re going to get.
And people are already starting to get bored of Amara, especially with the promise of the witches’ arrival, and are moving on, away from Izzo’s clever fingers.
Aldric stares at her. She stares back. She feels exhausted—she was out until the early hours of the morning, moving from tavern to tavern, trying to get people to talk.
She found out little more than she already knew—yes, conscription is in full force, and some Blooded have been caught as they tried to flee the city, hoping to escape notice in the rural parts of Vatra or to even make it across the border to Arturea.
“Fine,” Aldric spits, giving in first. “Just get out there and I’ll see what I can find out. Okay?”
She salutes. “Okay, boss.”
He’s not going to help you if you wind him up, Lar.
He just agreed to help, didn’t he? Besides, you were always the diplomatic one. I’ll do it my way.
She gets no response from her imagined conversation with Cam, but she can picture the look he’d give her if he were here. She doesn’t care. He can give her that look in person, when she finds him.
Skylar heads to the “stage,” which is just an area Torin cleared by flexing his muscles.
Torin has set up the tightrope, something that they’ve only managed to perfect in the last couple of months, given it needs to be fully portable.
It was a Sensor in Sarkan who helped them—someone who had worked designing houses in the capital before getting out when rumors of conscription first started.
Skylar only found out he was a Sensor in bed—where his heightened touch made for an interesting experience.
She wonders if he’s still there, or if they’ve found him, too.
Amara is currently walking on her hands across the tightrope, people’s necks craning to watch.
There is a round of applause as Amara flips off the tightrope, landing neatly on her feet and bowing.
There are a couple of catcalls, and Amara blows a kiss in that general direction.
She was born for the stage, really—much more so than Skylar.
“And now,” Aldric says, stepping forward with his arms outstretched, his colorful cloak billowing behind him, “Blade will show us how she earned her name.”
Torin jerks his head at Skylar, getting the daggers ready. She takes two of them as she climbs the ladder. Dust coats her tongue, and the stench of other people’s sweat is briefly overpowering. Why would anyone choose to live here?
She hears the buzz of impatient chatter below her as she reaches the top.
She steps onto the tightrope, keeping her balance in a way that has always come naturally to her.
She throws the two daggers into the air, allowing her senses to take over, telling her exactly when to catch them so she grasps the hilt and not the blade.
Torin whistles below her and she nods. He throws another up to her, making it three, then four daggers that she juggles as she walks.
There’s a soothing rhythm to it. It’s one of the only things she can do that makes her feel calm, that silences the energy she sometimes feels pounding around her body, urging her to do something reckless.
There are whoops and cheers below. She never bothers to acknowledge these—she might be doing it for show, but she’s not doing it for them. In truth, she hates this part, when she is something to gawp at.
But you look so pretty when you do it, Lar Lar. Something he’d said to her, when she was learning to juggle knives.
Pretty, huh? She’d taken a dagger, tapped it against her palm.
Deadly, he said quickly. I meant deadly, obviously.
“Oi, Blade!” someone with a thick accent shouts from the crowd. “Catch this!”
She barely has a second to register what’s happening. She hears it before she sees it, metal slicing air. She reacts on instinct, and as she throws one dagger up, she reaches out, snatching the knife from the air.
There’s a scream somewhere below, and Skylar’s breath hisses from her teeth as she wobbles. She caught it the wrong way, blade first, and the slice across her palm is deep. A child, maybe, screams again.
Steady, Lar.
She doesn’t let herself look down. She’s not that high—but falling would still hurt like Vaar.
She continues to juggle, adding in the knife someone has so kindly thrown her into the mix—Torin was going to throw her another one anyway.
But her hand is slick with blood, and pain sears her palm each time she catches.
She feels a surge of anger and without looking, she chucks the knife back into the crowd, in the general direction of whoever threw it at her.
More screams as people duck. People are such fucking wimps, aren’t they?
When she reaches the end of the tightrope, she doesn’t look at anyone as she drops the daggers and climbs down the ladder.
There is applause, stamping of feet, people cheering for more.
She sees Aldric look at her, all narrow-eyed—but really, it’s not like he can disapprove, is it?
He should be pleased—this will have created even more of a distraction for Izzo.
Blood is dripping on the orange clay ground when she reaches the bottom of the ladder, and as Aldric steps forward to announce the next act, Amara hands Skylar one of her scarves. She takes it without thanking her, bandaging her palm one-handed. Amara doesn’t offer to help.
“And now, for our final—” But there is a commotion somewhere at the back of the crowd.
A city guard is dragging someone away—a man, no older than Skylar.
He is pleading, but his words are lost as a buzzing fills the streets, as footsteps start scurrying away.
A few people nearest the guard seem to try to help, but when another guard appears out of nowhere, they back off.
What has the man done? Is he Blooded? But the guards can’t tell just by looking at someone whether they are Blooded. Right?
Skylar feels an uncomfortable lurch in her stomach as she glances at Aldric. He jerks his head, telling them to get moving. When Skylar looks back at the crowd, Izzo is there, weaving toward them with her tattoo clearly on show—the illusion around her dropped away.
“Time to leave,” Aldric barks. “If the guards are here, then the army might not be far behind. They’re out in force today, and I don’t want to get caught in the middle of something.”
Skylar twists the ring on her finger. She has all of two seconds to decide what to do.
But she doesn’t even need that long. Instead of ducking out of sight with Aldric and co.
, she uses the distraction to slip into the crowd.
Izzo sees her, and Skylar nods toward the harbor.
For a second Izzo holds her gaze—and Skylar knows she understands.
Izzo hesitates, then gives a nod-shrug. Skylar smiles at her briefly before slinking away, glad that Izzo isn’t inclined to try to stop her. The only one who would have is Cam.
And whatever it is you’re doing, I don’t think it’s a good idea.
But it’s not necessarily a bad idea, is it? In truth, it’s not much of an idea at all—only that, if Aldric’s right, if the army is here today, then…
Then what, Lar? You going to try to beat my whereabouts from some random soldier?
She ignores that, allowing the thrust of the crowd to carry her toward the harbor.
She’s never known so many people in one place—are they all really here to watch the witches arrive?
Or is the hope that the dragons will appear—like Cam had thought?
She wasn’t born when the last duel happened, but she’s heard rumors that people flocked from all over to see the two heirs try to bludgeon each other to death.
The scent of cracked corn and citrus mixes with the sulfur and spice as she walks—stalls selling things for people to eat while they wait.
But there is a fouler smell coating the air, too, one that makes Skylar want to gag.
She stumbles to a stop as she sees the cause of the stench.
There, up ahead, hanging from one of the dragon plinths, is a corpse.
A woman, though it’s difficult to be sure, given the life that has been leached from her body.
Dead, no question about it, and already rotting under the harsh sun.
But it’s more than that—it’s like her very essence has been sucked from her, leaving behind nothing but a shell. Despite the heat, Skylar shivers.
There are a few people around the feet of the woman, laying stones on the clay earth. One of them—a man—turns to look at her.
His gaze is so intense that Skylar swallows. “What happened?” She can’t help asking. She can’t help wanting to know.
“They said she was a rebel,” he says, voice harsh. “She wasn’t, but what do they care? They had her executed anyway.”
A rebel. So it’s true, then. There are rebels out there, somewhere, fighting against the king. And not doing a very good job, if this woman’s fate is anything to go by. Skylar can think of nothing else to say, so she just moves past him, blending with the crowd once more.
“Place your bets!” A man is waving papers in the air, a bag of coins clinking at his waist. Izzo would have that right off him. “I’ll give you good odds on the little witch,” he says to one passerby, “very good odds.”
“I bet you will,” Skylar mutters under her breath. Then, more loudly, “How do you know she’s little?”
The man turns to frown at her, then shrugs his grubby shoulders. “Figure of speech, isn’t it?”
She scoffs. “A terrible figure of speech.”
The man looks her up and down, maybe taking in the bandage on her hand, stained with blood. Skylar reaches up to finger the pin in her hair, but no need to use it—because he’s already walking away. She lets out a slow breath. Focus. She needs to focus here.
She weaves with more determination toward the harbor, sliding out her pin so she is ready to argue with anyone should she need to.
Her heart leaps as she sees a line of soldiers, their backs to the water.
Their dragon helmets are adorned with streaks of blue, blue patches on their tan leather armor.
What does blue mean? There’s a sinking feeling in her stomach as she remembers her time in one particular village, where soldiers passed through.
They all hid at camp that day, but Aldric told them not to worry—the red soldiers were the only ones to fear. The Blooded.
So this must be the Bloodless segment—which means the royals can’t be all that worried.
The soldiers look bored. Some of them are leaning on their spears, the dragon-tail points angled down. She could still ask one of them. Even if they’re Bloodless, maybe they’ll know something useful.
She’s right at the front of the crowd, where a line has formed, the city guards keeping them a safe distance from the docks.
She is moving away from the masses, toward the soldiers, when a guard spots her.
He crosses to her in an instant, shoving her back in line without a word.
There’s a sword at his side, but he doesn’t even go for it.
He’s already walking away when she glares at him.
She clenches her hand into a fist, steps forward again.
Don’t be an idiot, Lar.
She hesitates. He’s probably right—getting arrested would not be a good thing. Worse than that, actually. It would almost definitely be catastrophic.
There are whispers traveling from person to person now, the noise rising through the dusty air. Then she hears it—the cause of the murmurings. The sound of bells, ringing beyond the walls.
Which can only mean one thing. The witches are coming.