Daughter of Dusk (10 page)

In the end, they’d disagreed not on their goals but the means by which to accomplish them. She’d refused to shed innocent blood, and he’d called her naïve.
We’re
dealing with the Palace and the Council, the most powerful men in the three cities, and the swords they control,
he’d told her.
You don’t win this war with petty raids on their
storehouses. You draw blood.
That had been his philosophy, that it simply wasn’t possible to end the abuses by the wallhuggers without a costly fight. If someone had asked Kyra a week
ago whether she agreed with James, she would have said no.

Kyra hadn’t seen James since his capture. Even before the Council’s explicit prohibition, she’d kept her distance. James knew too much about Kyra, and he still embodied too
many painful memories. It had made sense to stay away. But now…

She started preparations the next day. When Flick took Lettie for a walk, Kyra locked the door behind them. She tore a few strips of cloth from an old tunic, placed them on the
table, and drew her dagger. Then she hesitated. The Makvani thought nothing of spilling a few drops of their own blood, but Kyra still found it difficult. After a few false starts, she sliced a
shallow cut across the top of her arm. It wasn’t deep, but it stung, and Kyra drew a sharp breath through her teeth as the blood welled out. She sopped up her blood with the cloth strips,
rolled them into balls, and tucked them into her belt pouch.

The next day, she dutifully reported to the Palace to discuss the rash of new Demon Rider attacks in the countryside. The Defense Minister had no further news on Lord Agan’s sons, and Kyra
didn’t press him. Instead of leaving the Palace afterward, she took a back path that led to the prison building. She was somewhat familiar with the layout. The building itself was built
solidly of stone, with barred windows in the aboveground floors. Since her series of break-ins to the Palace, Malikel had gone through and made sure that none of the windows were vulnerable. Not
that it mattered much. The most dangerous and valuable criminals were imprisoned in holding cells two floors belowground.

The building was thoroughly guarded, with Red Shields patrolling the corridors at all hours. The locks were well crafted and impossible to pick—she’d tried a few times out of
curiosity. The only keys were kept by the head warden in the guardhouse in front of the building. He knew Kyra—had guarded her when she was a prisoner there—and probably wasn’t
keen to trust her. The warden was supposed to keep his keys on his person at all times, but Kyra, who still paid attention to things like guards and keys, knew that he often removed his key ring
from his belt and placed it on his desk while he worked.

Now she approached the guardhouse from the back, out of view from passersby. The window was open. The warden was at his desk, and his keys were next to him.
Perfect.

The holding cells also had dog patrols—usually a deterrent to intruders, but in this case, Kyra would make them work for her. She pulled out the strips of cloth, stiff with her blood.
Looking around one more time to make sure nobody was watching, she tied the cloth pieces to some bushes in front of the guardhouse, low enough so they wouldn’t be easily seen. Then she backed
some distance away and waited.

The dog patrol came by half an hour later, a Red Shield with a mean-looking wolfhound on a leash. Kyra watched the dog carefully as its handler brought him closer. A low growl came from its
throat as he neared the place where Kyra had secured the cloth strips. The Red Shield pulled on the dog’s leash and looked around, but urged the animal forward when he found nothing awry. The
dog’s growling continued, and as it came closer to Kyra’s dried blood, the growls turned into full-on panic. The Red Shield cursed and struggled to get the animal under control as it
tried to bolt.

“What’s going on?” The prison warden came out of the guardhouse, voice sharp.

Kyra made her move, creeping closer to the guardhouse as quickly as she could. There was a slight wind, and she could hear the dog’s panic increase as it caught a whiff of Kyra herself.
She needed to be fast. The back window to the guardhouse was open, thankfully, and she lifted herself easily through it. She could still hear the warden yelling at the Red Shield outside as the dog
continued to bark and growl. His keys were still on the table.

She made a mental note of the key ring’s position before she lifted it up, holding it carefully to keep the keys from clanging. They were arranged by floor, and she wanted the farthest
cell in the lowest level. When she found it, she took a piece of clay from her belt and pressed the key into it—once on each side. She also copied the key to the main prison itself. The dog
was still barking madly when she climbed back out.

It took her four nights to file keys that would work, using one of Flick’s files that she’d borrowed and neglected to return. Kyra might have finished sooner, but these keys were
complicated, and she wanted to be absolutely sure they were done right. Plus she had to do it when neither Flick nor Lettie was around. They wouldn’t have understood.

On the fifth night, she dressed in dark clothes and snuck out of her quarters as Lettie slept. Kyra had an odd feeling of nostalgia as she crept back into the Palace. She hadn’t scaled
these walls since her capture. She supposed she could have come in through the gates, but she didn’t want any record of her having entered the compound that night. Herbuilding to building,
finally muscles remembered the routine well—the angle at which to cast her grappling hook, the familiar scramble up the side of the wall, the slight slipperiness of the granite against her
leather shoes. The guard schedules were different now, changed in part thanks to her, so she had to be careful not to let old routines lower her guard. She kept her eyes alert and her ears open.
Her blood flowed faster as she sped up her pace. It was exhilarating.

Kyra made her way from building to building, finally slowing as the prison’s shadow loomed above her. The entrance was lit by two torches, and two guards stood on either side of the arched
entryway. They never left their post, and they kept their eyes sharply trained on the path in front of them. They were attentive guards, for sure. But they hardly ever glanced upward.

Kyra checked the sky, estimating that she had about a quarter hour before the Palace clock rang out the time. She skirted to the back of the building, keeping her steps soft. She didn’t
hear any guards coming, so she ran straight for the wall and clambered skyward, wrapping her fingers around bars, ledges, and outcroppings in the stonework. Four stories up, then she pulled herself
onto the roof and crossed to the front.

The next step was more delicate. Carefully, Kyra worked her way back down. If she peered over her shoulder, she could see the guards standing sentry on either side of the entry archway below
her. If she dislodged anything and it fell between the Red Shields, she’d have to run.

She crept her way down until she neared the circle of light created by the torches on the wall. Kyra wrapped her fingers around some solid outcroppings and thrust her toes into secure niches.
Then she pressed herself flat and waited.

It wasn’t fun. The wind was freezing, and Kyra wondered whether her muscles would cramp up before the turn of the hour. Three hundred and twenty breaths later, the clock finally chimed,
and Kyra sprang into action, her limbs cold but thankfully functional. She checked quickly over her shoulder to see if there were any people around besides the guards, breathing a quick word of
thanks for her halfblood vision. Then, she climbed down into the circle of torchlight. As the clock finished up its hourly melody, she lowered her legs into the entryway and swung her entire body
into the archway behind the guards. The chimes masked the sound of her landing. The clock started to mark the time—it was three in the morning. Kyra slipped her key into the door.

First chime.

Kyra turned the key. It rotated halfway and then caught.

Second chime.

She jiggled the key. The tumblers gave way.

Third chime.

The lock clicked open. Kyra slipped in and closed the door behind her.
As the clock’s chimes faded from her ears, she let out a slow
breath. She was in.

Kyra stood in a dark and mercifully empty entryway. A stone corridor stretched out ahead, with solid wooden doors lining each side. The first floor consisted of interrogation
cells and a few holding cells. Though there were no guards in her immediate line of sight, she could hear boots echoing not far away. She hurried for the stairway down.

As Kyra moved into the lower levels, the smell of mold and human waste became stronger, and the silence was broken by the occasional shout or moan. Progress was slow. Several times, she had to
dive into a niche or perch atop a doorframe to evade a passing Red Shield. But she did work her way little by little until she stood in front of James’s cell. She doubted that he would be
unbound, but she readied her dagger just in case. Her key worked on the first try.

Her first glimpse of James knocked her back several steps. Kyra had expected to hate him. She’d steeled herself for memories of Bella and of her own near death at his hands. Those images
did come back, but she also saw James as he was now, and it left her speechless.

He was shackled to the wall by short chains that connected to rings around his wrists. He wore the same tunic and trousers that he had been captured in, though now they were soiled and torn.
James’s face was covered with bruises and cuts, as was what exposed skin Kyra could see. His white-blond hair was matted with what looked like blood.

He hung from his chains with his face cast down, and at first Kyra thought he was asleep. But then he slowly raised his head. His eyes were still the same cold, clear blue as they had always
been.

“I wondered when you’d come,” he said.

She had nothing to say. James watched her, and there was a hint of an amused smile on his lips. “Surprised at the sight of me? The Council spares no expense in welcoming its
guests.”

Kyra didn’t know why the marks of torture on James affected her so much. She had certainly known what the Palace did to criminals, though her own treatment while imprisoned had been
nothing compared to this. Was it because she had cooperated early on? Or was it because the knights of Forge still held too much to their chivalrous notions to torture a young woman?

Kyra took a few steps closer to James, though not within his reach. He was still a dangerous man, and she had the scars to prove it. But she wanted a better look at him. Now that she had gotten
over the shock of his appearance, she could see that James’s imprisonment hadn’t taken the glint of intelligence out of his eyes—nor had it broken him, she suspected. Kyra felt
her old wariness return.

“Did they torture you for information about the Guild?” she asked.

“Did you come down simply to check on my well-being?” he asked. His eyes flickered over her dark clothing. “Why do I get the feeling that Malikel doesn’t know you came to
see me?”

Yes, James was still definitely all there.

“I don’t have to answer to you anymore,” Kyra said.

James actually laughed, though the laugh ended in a cough. “And yet, you’re here. No, Kyra. If you’ve gone to this much trouble to speak to me, you want something from me. And
unless you plan to add your own cuts to those your masters have decorated me with, then I’ll have something from you in return. Starting with the real reason why you came.”

Funny. Kyra had planned this break-in perfectly, from fashioning the keys to getting past the door guards. But here in this cell, her plans came up short. As she’d lain awake plotting,
she’d known that she wanted to talk to James. But now she didn’t have the words.

“You’ve not given me away,” she said.

“Of course.” James’s eyes refocused on her face. “Your…surprising identity. Did you know what you were before the Demon Riders took you?”

Kyra didn’t answer.

“I’ll wager you didn’t. You didn’t have their bloodlust. And you still don’t.”

“You tried once to tell Malikel about me.” She had only barely convinced Malikel that James was lying.

“And you want to know why I didn’t continue to try,” he finished for her. “It was a mistake on my part even to attempt the first time, and I should thank you for not
letting me succeed. It might have turned them against you, but it would have gained me nothing more than short-lived satisfaction. Information is power in my trade, Kyra. I hold on to it until it
gains me something.”

“If you think you can blackmail me into letting you go,” said Kyra, “you’re wrong. I knew when I turned you in that I’d risk getting found out.”

“And I believe you,” he said calmly. “Is that the only reason you’re here? To satisfy your curiosity about your good luck?”

It wasn’t. Yet Kyra was reluctant to give the reason James was waiting for, to admit that there might have been some truth to his words all along.
The wallhuggers aren’t your
friends.
James wasn’t either, but she would hear him out.

She rubbed her forearms, trying to scrub the dungeon’s stink from her skin. “A lass was beaten by three noblemen.” She couldn’t bring herself to say Idalee. “Lord
Agan’s sons.”

James leaned his head against the wall and stretched his arms within the confines of his chains. “They’ve been a problem for a while now.” Kyra supposed she shouldn’t be
surprised that he knew their reputation. James had long maintained informants in the Palace, and she suspected she only knew a tiny fraction of what he had done as leader of the Assassins Guild.
“And then what happened?” he asked.

“The magistrate pardoned them,” she said, her fury returning as she spoke. “There was a courtyard full of witnesses, yet the magistrate said there wasn’t enough evidence
for a trial.” She paused. “It’s wrong.”

“Are you surprised?”

Kyra didn’t answer, and there was clear understanding in James’s eyes at her silence.

“You think I’m evil,” James finally said. “You cringe at the fact that I’d spill the blood of innocents to take down my enemies. But what you’ve refused to
understand, and what you’re resisting even now, is that there’s no other way. The powerful do not let go of their positions so easily. Change doesn’t occur without
blood.”