“Would you choose the way you die?” Kyra’s question came out breathless. With the roar of the crowd around her, there was no way he could have made out her words. But she could see that he understood nonetheless.
“Do what you came to do,” he said. His gaze was as intense as she’d ever seen it. Was he angry at her? Grateful? Kyra didn’t have time to wonder. Red Shields were pointing at her and shouting, and she had to make her move. She closed the distance between them. He caught her eyes as she raised her knife to his throat, and such was the strength he projected that Kyra could not look away. The edge of her blade nicked his skin, and still their gazes remained locked. One stroke, then it would be over, quick and clean. But Kyra couldn’t move.
The wagon rocked. Kyra cursed her hesitation and whipped around as a Red Shield pulled himself onto the back edge of the cart. She grabbed a pepper pouch and threw it at him. Her left-handed throw went wide, but the second try caught the soldier square in the face, and he fell backward onto his comrades. Kyra pivoted and threw her remaining pouches at the guards on the other side.
Then, as red pepper dust still hung in the air, Kyra turned, gritted her teeth, and buried her blade in James’s stomach.
He shuddered once, the muscles of his throat tightening and his jaw clenching against the pain. As warm blood washed over Kyra’s hands, a memory came to her. She was on the floor of James’s study, convulsing around his blade as she bled out onto his floor. You could have gone far, he’d whispered. The scar on her own abdomen throbbed in recognition.
She heard James’s voice again, and it took her a moment to realize that this wasn’t from her memory. He was speaking, though Kyra couldn’t make out the words. Her body was tangled up with his. She still held her dagger, buried in his stomach, and she’d grasped the back of his neck for leverage. Kyra could feel a layer of sweat on his skin, his pulse growing erratic under her fingers. As he struggled to draw breath, she tilted her head to let him speak into her ear.
“Choose your fight,” he said.
Then he slumped into his bindings, and the life left his eyes.
T W E N T Y - T H R E E
There was no time to pause, to wallow in what she had done. No time to clean her dagger, wipe James’s blood off her hands, or search his face for any remaining message. The crowd was screaming. The dust had cleared. Two Red Shields, one on either side, jumped onto the wagon. Kyra thrust her knife into her boot and leaped for an overhang, pulling herself up and away as the soldiers reached to grab her.
She sprinted down the row of rooftops, jumping between uneven levels and rolling when she took a long drop. But even as she pulled farther away from the wagon, Kyra realized she’d miscalculated. She’d traveled these rooftops before and knew a path that would take her to the city wall, but she’d underestimated the crowds. They were everywhere, and already, she could hear people shouting to stop the lass on the rooftops. She skidded to a stop at the last house and looked down into the faces of wide-eyed watchers below, packed so tightly she couldn’t even see the ground. Kyra turned around to see Red Shields climbing up awkwardly after her. Then the first arrow struck by her feet.