Lark.
She took off in the direction he’d just gone, the same direction of the scream, rounded the corner, the road splitting into three, and even though the voice bounced off the walls, she knew where it was coming from, could feel it, like a string drawn taut between them. She took a sharp right, and there was Lark, fighting with all his strength, even though a chain was wrapped around his wrists. He’d always seemed so big to Kosika, so tall, but he was so much shorter than the two men attacking him, so much smaller than the fist that crashed against his cheek.
“No!” she shouted as his body buckled to the street. One of the men turned toward her, and her heart lurched in her chest as she recognized him from her mother’s house, the rope tattoo on his left hand, his body all gristle and grease.
The collector smiled.
“Well, well,” he said, a second length of metal hanging from one hand.
Behind him, Lark was trying to summon fire, but the chain around his wrists must be cutting it off, because his fingers splayed and nothing happened. He tried to get to his feet, but the man shoved Lark back down as the one who’d paid her mother started toward Kosika.
“Run!” shouted Lark, and she wasn’t proud of it, but Kosika took a single step back before arms came down around her, a third man crushing the air from her lungs and hauling her off her feet. The first was still coming toward her with that chain, and the world was humming and she didn’t so much think as reach for the stone wall and pull it toward her.
And to her surprise, it came.
A massive piece of the wall listed, leaned, and tore free, crashing down like a wave onto the gristle man, burying him beneath the stone. The arms around her tightened, and she slammed her head back, felt the satisfying crunch of teeth, even as it sent a lancing pain through her own skull, her vision going black-and-white for a second before the captor cussed, and dropped her. She hit the ground hard, skinning her hands and knees. When she touched the back of her head, her fingers came away red. She was hurt, and scared, but there was no time for fear.
“You little bitch,” said a voice, paired with the scrape of steel, and Kosika twisted toward the man who’d grabbed her, blood spilling from his broken mouth as he slashed the sword through the air and she flung her hands out in a useless plea for him to stop.
And he did.
His whole body jerked to a halt, limbs trembling, like a bug stuck in a spider’s web. She could feel the bones shivering beneath his skin, could feel the metal in his sword as it turned, tip driving back into his chest, could feel the life leave his body as he fell to the ground.
She stared, shaking as she got to her feet.
“Kosika.”
Lark’s voice was a hoarse whisper, and she turned and saw him, past the pile of rubble, on his knees, his head wrenched back and a blade against his throat. He made a signal with his bound hands. Run. But this time her legs didn’t betray her. This time, they carried her forward.
“You stay right there,” ordered the man, his fingers tangled in Lark’s silver hair. The blade kissed the boy’s throat, drawing a thin line of blood. Lark winced, and there was fear in his eyes, but his hands were moving again, not signaling now but reaching, and she realized too late, that Lark was reaching for the knife he kept in his boot.
It happened so fast.
Lark pulled the blade, and drove it down into the man’s foot. He howled, and jerked back, drawing his knife across Lark’s throat.
“NO!” screamed Kosika, running as fast as she could, not for the man, who was already fleeing, but for her best friend as he slumped and toppled to the dirty street. She’d always been fast, but the wind was at her back, and it pushed her, carrying her toward him with impossible speed. She fell to her knees beside Lark’s body as his mouth opened and closed, as his eyelids fluttered and his life spilled out, too much, too bright.
Kosika tore the chain from his wrists, and pressed her hands to his wounded throat.
“Nas aric,” she pleaded, as the blood slipped between her fingers. Don’t die.
“Nas aric,” she whispered, again and again, but as she did, the words changed in her mouth, the n to a softer h, the end open, a new plea welling up. A word Kosika didn’t know, had never said before.
Hasari.
Another sound rose up to join it, like a hitching breath. As.
“As Hasari. As Hasari. As Hasari.”
The strange words spilled out like a chant, and as they did, the blood stopped pouring from Lark’s throat. There was so much of it, on him, and on her, and on the road beneath, but his skin was no longer grey. His body went slack but it was the kind of relief that came with sleep, not death. Lark’s chest rose and fell, and when she dared to lift her hands from his throat, she saw the gaping wound had closed, leaving only a raised line, like a welt, running from edge to edge across his neck.
Kosika let out a sob. Lark’s eyelids fluttered, and drifted open. He swallowed, and the first thing he said wasn’t a question. It was only two words, whispered in a tone of wonder.
“Your eyes.”
And before she could ask what he meant, she heard the heavy tread of armored boots, and looked up to see two soldiers, a man and a woman, marching toward them in dark grey plate.
“What happened here?” demanded the man, and only then was Kosika aware of her surroundings: the city wall, half-collapsed, a tattooed hand sticking out from the rubble; the body with the sword jutting out from his chest; Lark on the ground, still covered in blood, but not bleeding; her own hands stained red, her body still humming with fear and relief. Other faces were starting to appear, in windows and doorways, studying the scene.
“On your feet,” ordered the woman, and Kosika rose, stepping in front of Lark as she did. She wanted to run, but he couldn’t even stand, not yet, and she wouldn’t leave him. Besides, she was starting to feel dizzy, as if she was the one who’d lost all that blood.
Kosika was still trying to decide what to do when horse hooves thundered on the stones, and a third soldier arrived, dressed differently from the other two, clad in silver armor and riding a dark horse. A royal guard. He dismounted, and removed his helmet as he took in the scene.
“Kot err,” he muttered. King’s breath. And then, louder, “Who did this?”
“I did,” said Kosika, defiantly meeting the royal guard’s eyes. His breath caught, surprise sweeping across his face.
She didn’t realize one of the previous soldiers had gone away until he returned, hauling the collector who’d slit Lark’s throat—the one who’d gotten away. The man was limping, the little knife still stuck in his foot, and babbling on incoherently until the royal guard made a sign and the grey soldier struck the man hard, so hard he fell to his knees, and stayed there. Good, thought Kosika, and she might have gone and kicked him for good measure, but the royal guard turned and knelt in front of her so they were face-to-face.
The silver armor on his chest was so polished that Kosika could almost make out her reflection in the gleaming metal. Almost, but not quite.
“Whose blood is that?” asked the royal guard, gesturing to her hands. Kosika flexed her fingers, the red drying brown on her palms. Most of it was Lark’s, but she had touched the back of her head, before, hadn’t she, which meant a little must be hers, too. She didn’t say any of that, only glared at the man on his knees.
“He cut my friend’s throat.”
The royal guard didn’t look at the collector. Didn’t look at anyone but Kosika. His hair was pale, his eyes the color of the sky, a watery blue.