CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

The Scorpion foretasted happiness

Like vengeance it’s a meal best eaten cold

And for her faith she paid a pretty price

A bargain which few knew, and fewer told

Our promises were made for us to keep

A debt’s due even if the cost is steep

—THE BOOK OF UNVEILING

Early morning sunshine stabbed through the shutters illuminating the planes of Darvyn’s face. Kyara traced the edges of his lips, humming in satisfaction.

He smiled under her fingertips, and she laughed—a sound so unfamiliar. A weight had been lifted from her. Happiness was lighter than she’d ever imagined. The moment was breached by the growling of her stomach. They had spent hours in each other’s arms, but now practical matters needed to be addressed.

“What are the chances that the sackers left any food behind?” Darvyn asked.

“None. But the market is close. I’ll go and bring us something back.”

Darvyn sat up, his easy smile fading. “I’ll go with you.”

She shook her head. “The soldiers are looking—”

“For both of us. They’re looking for both of us. And after what you did to Aren when we escaped the castle, you may be a higher priority than me now.”

She snorted. “I didn’t know you were conscious for that.”

“Barely.” His smile returned; he cupped her cheek. “We go together.”

She leaned forward until her forehead met his. “Fine. But you should disguise yourself.”

---

She kept stealing looks at him from the corner of her eye. Her handsome, diamond-eyed rebel had become a shadow of his former self. Darvyn had transformed into a man of the same height and weight, but that’s where the similarities ended.

Deep acne scars pockmarked his face. His eyes were small and deep set beneath a heavy brow ridge. A single eyebrow connected in the middle. He was frankly horrifying. She was having a hard time tearing her eyes away.

They’d liberated an elaborately embroidered mourning veil from the laundry line of a Windy Hill payroller. The fabric and lace hid Kyara completely from view. It also kept her remarkably cool in the stifling heat.

The market was clogged with shoppers. Men and women shouted, haggled, and jostled one another, trading grams or ration tokens for their supplies.

An old woman’s fry cart was Darvyn and Kyara’s first stop. They purchased two hand pies each—fresh from the vat of oil bubbling on the portable grill. Kyara burned her fingertips when she tried to steal a taste. Darvyn laughed as she blew on her fingers. But he sobered quickly, gazing through the crowd.

A flash of black amidst a sea of earth tones hardened Kyara’s spine. Golden Flames.

“I know he’s nearby.” Aren’s voice made her stomach roil. The appetizing smell of the pies was now repulsive. “Search every stall, every alleyway until you find him.”

How had Aren found them so quickly?

Black-clad figures spread like insects through the rows of merchants. Darvyn grabbed her hand and squeezed. All they had to do was act naturally. She and Darvyn just needed to not call attention to themselves and make their escape calmly.

The rows of vendors surrounded a small square of dirt where a towering statue of the True Father stood, looming. These statues were everywhere in Sayya, a reminder that the immortal king was always watching.

Aren climbed the base of the statue—a defacement usually punishable by death. But the additional height allowed him to peer down at the marketplace. He pulled something from his pocket, and Kyara cursed.

“What is it?” Darvyn asked.

“He’s got a pair of spectacles. We have to get you out of here now.”

She grabbed his arm and turned on her heel, pulling him down the row. Other shoppers had the same idea and were all heading away now, fleeing the market. The sight of Golden Flames was enough to make them abandon their shopping.

Ydaris’s presence at the warehouse the night before became more clear. She must be getting these amalgamation objects from Raal and had given one to Aren. That was how he’d captured Darvyn at the army base.

Half a dozen stalls ahead of them, the path was blocked by two Flames Kyara recognized. She reached for her Song, knowing it was useless. With this many people around and without a huge store of Nethersong, she wouldn’t be able to control it. If she used her power, she wasn’t sure she could pull back and keep from killing whoever was closest to her in the crowd, including Darvyn.

Suddenly, both soldiers dropped. She looked at Darvyn with surprise and he grinned. Of course, the Shadowfox could take care of himself.

“Bring the prisoners,” Aren yelled, his voice amplified. Kyara chanced a glance over her shoulder to find Aren holding a speaking trumpet to his lips.

When a small figure was pushed up onto the statue’s base, Darvyn jerked to a stop. Aren grabbed the young woman’s bound hands before she wobbled and fell.

“Meldi,” Darvyn whispered.

Squinting, Kyara recognized the woman from the Keeper’s safe house. “She’s the one who betrayed you?”

Though Darvyn’s face was foreign, she was very familiar with the expression he wore—hard eyes glittering, jaw locked, mouth firmed.

“Would the Keepers have turned her in?” Kyara wondered.

“No. Our justice is our own. She must have been caught somehow.” His voice was unemotional, but pain flashed in his eyes.

Aren’s voice sounded tinny through the metal device pressed to his lips. “The Shadowfox cannot resist aiding a cripple.”

A smug satisfaction grew in Kyara. They were trying to appeal to Shadowfox’s loyalty; little did they know it had been destroyed. At least where Meldi was concerned.

She continued moving, pulling Darvyn forward. They were only steps from the end of the row when Aren’s taunting voice called out again. “Or perhaps this youth will tug on the fugitive’s heartstrings.”

Something told her not to look. Not to let Darvyn look. But she could stop neither of them. The sight of the second prisoner brought to the platform made her blood freeze.

Farron stood, held in the clutches of Aren’s lackey, Dalgo. The boy’s lip was split and his eye blackened. The ruby red of a collar glinted around his neck.

Darvyn’s grip on her hand tightened. She wrenched his arm back, trying to drag him away. “You go. I’ll get Farron,” she said through clenched teeth. But he shook his head. “Darvyn, if you get caught—”

Aren’s maniacal laugh tore her gaze back to the platform. Now he was looking right at them, the glass from the spectacles glinting in the sun.

“How powerful is the Shadowfox now?”

Slowly, Aren raised his pistol to Meldi’s head. The woman’s eyes grew wide; tears leaked down her cheeks, but Kyara felt no sympathy.

Darvyn responded to Aren’s threat by straightening his shoulders. He raised his chin as his disguise fell away, revealing a scowl.

Kyara’s Song paced its cage, sensing the danger and eager to be let out. The blood spell no longer prevented her from harming Aren, but there were so many innocents here. She had never been able to control her power in a crowd. Too many people, too close together. She removed her veil, taking a stand with Darvyn out in the open even as dread made her heartbeat stutter.

Farron searched the crowd. When he caught sight of Darvyn, he glared, shaking his head. Dalgo freed his pistol and held it to the boy’s head, a perverse smile bending the soldier’s lips.

A dark part of Kyara hoped that Aren shot Meldi, releasing a store of Nethersong that would let her control her Song. When Meldi pitched forward, for a moment Kyara thought her malicious wish had been granted, but no Nethersong flooded her. The traitor had just fainted.

Aren huffed in annoyance. He dropped Meldi and pushed Dalgo out of the way before pointing his pistol at Farron. Darvyn grew more rigid beside her. Meldi would be no great loss, but Farron was another story. Kyara, too, had a soft spot for the teen.

Her fingers itched for the knife in her boot. She needed Nethersong, and there were two Golden Flames coming toward them, pacing down the row. No one would miss either of them. Once they were within striking distance, she could act.

Darvyn took a step forward as Farron struggled against his bonds.

“No!” Farron cried. “The True Father will get your Song. You can’t let him!”

Kyara’s heart tore as sorrow filled Darvyn’s eyes. “I can’t watch you die for me,” he called out to Farron. “I won’t.”

Aren pressed the barrel of the gun hard against Farron’s temple.

“Put Aren to sleep,” she whispered, trying not to move her lips.

Darvyn shook his head and jerked his chin up toward the rooftops surrounding the market square. She’d been so focused on the prisoners, she hadn’t noticed a ring of soldiers had surrounded them, rifles trained on the market.

“You know the playbook, Kyara,” Aren’s voice rang out. “If either of you use your power against me or my men, the snipers will start shooting. They’ll target the civilians first.”

Cowering shoppers and vendors around them gasped. Fear made the air stink.

Once again Kyara considered her power. With a single death, could she lash out more quickly than a bullet? A few casualties of war could save them all. Would the losses be worth it, to save the Shadowfox?

“No, Kyara,” Darvyn said, as if he could read her thoughts. “Nobody else dies for me.”

Her lip quivered at the finality in his voice. She shook her head. She was the Poison Flame. There were songs sung about her deadliness. And now, when it mattered, could she let the one man she cared about sacrifice everything?

His jaw was hard, but his eyes pleaded with her. The guilt in them called her name. Was she strong enough to give him this? Did she love him enough to respect his wish?

The thought of losing him shook her. He squeezed her hand, wanting her agreement.

Finally she exhaled a ragged breath. “No one else dies.”

He nodded once, then released her. She was bereft without his touch.

He stalked forward as the crowd parted. Did they know who they were making way for? Did they know how many times this man had saved them?

She followed in his wake, feeling out of her body, like she was watching from high above and these were other people headed toward their doom. People she didn’t care about. People she didn’t love.

The thought made her knees feel like jelly. Her heart shook just as hard.

Darvyn approached the statue, ignoring Farron’s cries for him to run and save himself. When he was close enough, Dalgo raised a collar and snapped it around his neck.

Kyara fell to her knees, a scream shredding her throat.

Two Flames bound Darvyn’s hands behind him. Aren jumped from the platform and punched him in the face, a feral gleam in his eye. Then he pulled a tiny red stone from his pocket and wiped it in the blood seeping from Darvyn’s split lip.

“Speak.” Ydaris’s voice was clear and impatient.

“It’s done. We have them both.”

“Kyara ul-Lagrimar.” Kyara’s wound pulsed at the voice. “Return to the castle immediately and harm no one on your way here.”

The pain flared, and Kyara’s head fell. No shackles or chains were needed to bind her. The manacles holding Darvyn were enough.

She wasn’t sure she had anything left to fight for.