The Kingdoms of Dust (12 page)

“I don’t love you.”

Isyllt laughed. The words stung, but it was a clean cut. “Good.” Witchlight answered her silent call, and the iridescent glow drove the shadows into the corners. She tugged off her boots, shedding more sand onto the floor. Her chest still ached from the wind’s touch. She was so tired. Tired of ships and rented rooms, tired of not knowing what lay ahead. Tired of missing things dead and gone, and not knowing what to say to the people who were left.

Tired.

She stripped to her underclothes and lay back on gritty cushions. The witchlight died, leaving only the dim glow from the street. Isyllt watched shadows shift across the ceiling and listened to the sounds of a foreign city until her eyes sagged and the noises dimmed. By the time she heard the soft scrape of the window opening and Moth slipping out, she was too tired to care.

She stood in an empty street, the ground littered with dying fish. The sky was orange in the aftermath of the storm, the roar of the wind still echoing in her ears. Or maybe it was only the sound of her pulse. A fish writhed at her feet, gills straining, iridescent scales dull with dust. She could end its suffering with a touch, but she didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

“Isyllt.”

She wondered at first how the fish knew her name, but that voice—like the slow rasp of sand across stone—could never come from the poor choking perch. A shadow fell across hers, and she felt the presence behind her.

“Isyllt Iskaldur,” the shadow said. “Isyllt Ilsesdottir.”

She tried to turn, but the dream held her fast. Long hands closed on her shoulders; even from the corner of her eye, she could see they weren’t human.

“How do you know that name?” She only gave it to a handful of people after her mother died, all in Erisín, and most of them dead.

The shadow chuckled. “I know what the void knows, and the void knows you.”

“Who are you?”

The shadow pressed close, cold against her back, and a feathered cloak enfolded her. “We might become enemies, but I would rather be your ally. We have so much in common—including a problem. Quietus wants you. They’ll offer you sweet promises and lies, but never believe them. They mean to use you, as they use everything.”

Another gaunt grey hand snaked around her, pressing taloned fingers against her left breast. Nothing sexual in the touch, but a terrible intimacy all the same. The shadow reached through skin and bone to grasp her heart. She shuddered and went limp, but the grip on her arms held her upright while the third hand ripped open her chest.

No crunch or crimson spray. Instead of a handful of greasy muscle, her heart slid out slick and glistening. Cold and black and hollow, as translucent as glass. As a diamond.

“They’ll offer you whatever you want, but don’t listen. All their gifts are poison.”

The hands released her and Isyllt fell, heartless and hollow, to lie in the dirt beside a dying fish.

And woke gasping, to bells and the grey light of dawn. Her good hand pressed against her chest, nails carving crescents into her skin.

B
reakfast brought word that Asheris was on his way to meet them, having been delayed on the road by yesterday’s storm. Isyllt had expected Siddir to be cheered by the news, but if anything his mood worsened.

Isyllt’s mood was little better. She’d slept only fitfully after the temple songs faded, and the unease of the dream lingered, aching in her chest. Moth, returned from her wandering, had slept through the bells and slept still. Morning was nearly gone.

“You brought me to the city of stories,” Isyllt said, jabbing a honey spoon toward Siddir. “Show me some of them.” Academics at the Arcanost would risk much for a visit to Sherazad’s famous library; thinking of the Arcanost only soured her mood more.

“It wouldn’t be prudent.” Siddir sat with his back to a sandstone pillar, watching the street. The sun was high and the morning’s crowds had already thinned—fewer crowds than yesterday. A flock of pigeons braved the heat to scavenge crumbs from a baker’s cart. “The storm has the city unsettled. And I wasn’t sure yesterday”—he raised his glass to cover the words—“but I am today. We’re being watched.”

Isyllt’s mouth twisted. She fished a frozen mint leaf from her tea; ice crunched between her teeth and her next breath chilled her throat. A costly luxury—if Asheris had no work for her as a spy, she might earn a living making ice for inns and taverns. “Someone was following me in Kehribar. At least from Thesme, maybe all the way from Erisín. I could find out who, if you weren’t so squeamish.”

Siddir’s brows pulled together, then relaxed into a less angry frown. “Perhaps you’re right. All the same, I find it difficult to flout my upbringing. Asheris won’t share my squeamishness, I’m sure.”

Asheris had shown few qualms about Isyllt or her magic in Symir. Certainly none about touching her. Unexpected warmth rose in her cheeks and she covered it with a cold swallow of tea.

“Make our shadows work a little,” she said, “if they’re so intent on watching us. We can draw them out if we leave the inn.”

Adam snorted, and Isyllt shot him a narrow glance. It
had
worked in Kehribar, if not as cleanly as she might have hoped.

“I was sent to bring you to Assar, not get you killed as soon as we arrive.”

Hooves and wheels carried through the still air, cutting off Isyllt’s reply. Pigeons fluttered and hopped aside as a carriage rolled to a stop in front of the gates. Siddir half rose, paused, them completed the motion, straightening his robes with careful nonchalance. Isyllt nearly laughed, but she had pushed back her chair, too, and her hands tingled on the arms.

They reached the courtyard gate as the carriage door opened and a man stepped down. Dust puffed beneath his sandals. Dark hands rose to throw back the hood of his sand-colored burnous; sunlight gleamed on the smooth mahogany curve of his scalp. Asheris al Seth looked up and smiled.

Isyllt couldn’t stop her answering grin. Even when they’d been enemies, friendship had come easily to her. To both of them, she liked to think, never mind her scars. She stepped forward, wincing at the heat and glare.

“Lord al Seth.”

“Lady Iskaldur.” Kohl lined his amber eyes, made them as striking as a cat’s; it clumped in creases when he smiled. She’d almost forgotten how magnetic that smile was.

She expected to feel the warm rush of his magic when their hands clasped; instead sparks stung her through cotton gloves, and a shock like lightning seared her nerves. His eyes flared—not with nightshine like Adam’s, but a fierce fiery light that was nothing beast or human.

“I’m sorry,” he said as she flinched, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his robe. His smile vanished.

“What’s happened?” His control had always been better than this, even after she’d broken the sorcerous chains that had bound him to the old emperor’s service.

Siddir joined them, his eyes tracking along the street. “Let’s save the pleasantries for the shade.”

Isyllt squinted past Asheris’s shoulder. Without yesterday’s veil of dust, the city glittered. Everywhere she turned sunlight flashed on glass, on brass, on polished tile and gilded spires. Leaves rustled gently above a garden wall. A glint of metal—

Siddir was faster; he tackled her into the dust with a shout as a shot shattered the air. The carriage horses screamed and stamped. Pigeons scattered in a storm of grey feathers.

A rifle, she thought as she struck the dirt. Metal flashed again and she glimpsed the sniper, a shadow vanishing in the foliage of the garden. A shutter flew open in a nearby house and someone shouted; feathers drifted slowly down.

Adam joined her and Siddir as they rolled behind the cover of the inn’s outer wall. Asheris followed, cursing softly—a crimson stain spread across his shoulder, seeping through wool and feathering across pale linen below. He touched the wound and stared at his fingers, eyebrows rising in disbelief. Black swallowed amber as his eyes widened, then yellow flames rose to drown them both.

He was the only one among them who couldn’t be killed by a bullet. That did nothing to temper the rage that burned like naphtha in Isyllt’s veins. She lunged to her feet, drawing veils of magic around her as she ran for the wall. Rustling leaves marked the would-be assassin’s retreat.

Siddir and Asheris shouted, but she ignored them. She’d had enough of shadows and threats. Heavier footsteps matched hers—Adam racing after.

Anger gave her momentum, but it helped that the garden wall was low. One hard jump and she caught the decorative crenellations. Cotton gloves snagged and tore as she hauled herself up; something stretched unpleasantly in her left shoulder.

She dropped into cool green shade on the other side, smelled loam and sap and honeysuckle. Adam landed beside her an instant later, eyes flashing from light to shadow.

“I thought we were trying
not
to get ourselves killed.” His nostrils flared. “This way.” He pointed to the left, where a narrow gate led to an alley beside the house.

She tripped over the rifle, abandoned in a tangle of vines at the bottom of a trellis. Isyllt wasted a heartbeat to ward and obfuscate it; they’d need it later if they had to trace the person who fired it.

Down the alley and into a curving street. Every breath seared her lungs, and her legs already ached from the sudden exertion. Her shoulder throbbed. On her own she would have lost her quarry, but Adam had the scent now and neither of them slowed.

A flicker of movement ahead of them, a brown cloak and rising dust. She half expected to see the woman in black, but this assassin was a man. The few passersby drew back, wide-eyed, as the three runners barreled down the street.

Another alley, another hard turn that nearly spilled Isyllt into an open gutter. She drew power from her diamond, dulled the pain in her muscles, and ran harder. She’d regret this tomorrow, but now she was closing on the sniper.

The man turned again, this time into a market. If he meant to find a crowd to hide in he was out of luck; only a few sleepy vendors looked up from their stalls. Children and dogs drowsed in the shade along one wall, blinking sleepily at the sudden clamor. Brass gleamed on tables; silk scarves rippled in the lazy breeze.

“Thief!” Isyllt shouted. The word ripped out of her chest. “Reward!”

At once half a dozen children were on their feet, racing after the man. Lean copper-colored dogs gave chase, barks echoing between the walls. The children, not already exhausted, easily kept pace with the sniper, pointing wherever he turned and shouting encouragement to Isyllt.

The man grabbed a barrel from a vendor’s table and flung it after him. Polished marbles scattered in all directions, flashing as they struck walls and stalls and unlucky children. The urchins fell back, still laughing, but now giving their prey safe distance. The merchant shrieked invective.

Marbles bruised Isyllt’s feet through the soles of her boots, bruised her hands as she fell and caught herself. A thud and a curse told her Adam hadn’t been as lucky. Her desire to take the sniper alive diminished with every step.

The man ducked under an arch and Isyllt followed him into a shaded door-lined corridor. The sudden gloom blinded her; her eyes ached as she forced them to adjust. Behind her, she heard Adam warning the children away.

Caught in the chase, Isyllt didn’t realize until she stepped through a broken door into a dark room that she had just cornered her quarry, and herself. She drew up three strides in, deafened by her pulse, gulping air heavy with must and spices and a harsh reek of alcohol. Her ring chilled in the presence of death.

A draft breathed across her sweaty cheek and she spun, taking the blow across her shoulder and back instead of the back of her skull. Her vision washed red and grey as she crumpled, the wind knocked from her lungs.

She rolled, caught a booted foot aimed for her face. She didn’t have the leverage to bring the man down, but a shove sent him hopping backward, off-balance. He clutched at a shuttered window and wood creaked and swung open. Daylight spilled through grimy glass, showing a cluttered, shelf-lined room and the wreckage of the wooden chair that had just broken against her back. A storm of dust motes spiraled through the slanting light.

“Who are you?” Isyllt gasped, pushing to her feet. Her left arm didn’t work. Numb, she prayed, not broken.

He didn’t answer and she reached for her knife. The man was faster—he lunged, head down like a bull, and rammed her backward into a shelf. Wood cracked. Glass shattered, raining down around them. Cold fluid soaked Isyllt’s back and sluiced over her hair. She tried to catch her breath and regretted it instantly.

Fumes burned her nose and throat, sharp and pungent and reeking of death. Harsh wine and decaying flesh. Glass shards struck her scalp, followed by something heavy and rubbery that bounced down her chest and slid into her lap. She reached for it, touched what felt like wet clay and soggy leather.
Not another fish—

She held a dead snake. A cobra. She flung it away and found three others beside her in the spreading puddle of wine and broken glass.

Her attacker stumbled back, a hand over his mouth, brown skin greying as the stench rolled over him. Isyllt glanced up to see dozens of pickled cobras staring from glass bottles. Snake wine. Other dried skins and animal parts hung from the ceiling, and jars of herbs and more dubious things lined the far wall. They had broken into an apothecary’s shop.

Death sighed around her, heady as the wine fumes. Isyllt wasn’t sure she could stand; she didn’t need to.

Her magic reached through glass and wine to touch the floating serpents. Dead flesh stirred, writhed, scales sliding against the curves of their prison. The man reached for her and recoiled when he saw the snakes move.

Some had sat too long—their flesh was too soft to use. A dozen were still intact, though, and those answered her summons. Isyllt covered her bleeding face with her hands, her ring glowing through her ruined glove. Magic called; death answered.

A dozen cobras moved as one, shattering their bottles. Wine and glass sprayed the room. The snakes sprang for Isyllt’s attacker with fangs unfolded. He screamed high and sharp as they uncoiled, long slick bodies whipping through the air. She wasn’t sure if their venom could survive death and pickling, but it didn’t seem to matter. After several bites, he curled on the floor, weeping and trying to bat the undead snakes away.

A shadow fell across the door and several snakes turned. Luckily for Adam, Isyllt turned too, and recognized him before they could strike.

“Don’t worry,” she called. “They won’t hurt you.” The cobras lowered their bellies to the floor, hoods furling against their necks. Purple tongues tasted the air; their eyes were empty sockets.

“Blood and iron,” he swore, muffled by the fold of his cloak held over his face. “What is that?”

“Snake wine. And our sniper friend. Help me up, please.” She hated to ask, but her left arm still didn’t want to move, and as her heart slowed she began to feel the blow her back had taken. Wine stung her eyes and a dozen cuts on her face and scalp. The liquid dripping down her face stained her robes rusty pink.

Adam looked at her and grimaced. For a moment she thought he would refuse. Then he limped carefully through the snakes and took her outstretched hand. She whimpered as he pulled her to her feet.

“What happened?” he asked, touching her face and frowning.

“He hit me with a chair. And a shelf. Then a jar of snakes fell on me. Then I turned the snakes on him.”

“Right.” He looked past her, to the unbroken jars watching them from the wall. “People drink that?”

“It’s medicinal. Let’s see how it worked for our friend.”

The assassin curled on the floor, keening inside a ring of snakes. At Isyllt’s command the serpents slithered back, leaving room to crouch beside him. Adam went first, his knife ready, but there was no fight left in the man.

“Let me see,” she said gently.

He had been bitten on the cheek, the shoulder, the arm and thigh. A fang had pierced the webbing of his right hand. Already the bites were black in the center, the skin around them inflamed and peeling. The beginning of necrosis. The alchemy of necromancy and cobra venom was an ugly one.

Isyllt tugged off her right glove and laid her hand on his brow as if checking for fever. He was clammy and sweating, eyes black with pain and fear. Questing tendrils of magic spread from her touch, searching for death echoes in his wounds. In each one she found them. Any one of these bites would kill in a day or two if untreated; with so many it was a matter of hours.

“H-help me,” he stammered, muscles standing out in his jaw.

“I’m sorry.” She kept her voice soft. Hard to stay angry with the dying, even though her back throbbed and seized with every movement. “I can end the pain.”

“Please—” His hand groped for hers. Or perhaps it was simply convulsion. She took it anyway.

“What’s your name?”

“Reda.” His face was sun-browned despite its current pallor, weathered. The hand in hers was callused and strong. He was younger than she’d first thought; fear made him younger still.