There are whoops and cheers below. She never bothers to acknowledge these—she might be doing it for show, but she’s not doing it forthem. In truth, she hates this part, when she is something to gawp at.
But you look so pretty when you do it, Lar Lar.Something he’d said to her, when she was learning to juggle knives.
Pretty, huh?She’d taken a dagger, tapped it against her palm.
Deadly, he said quickly.I meant deadly, obviously.
“Oi, Blade!” someone with a thick accent shouts from the crowd. “Catch this!”
She barely has a second to register what’s happening. She hears it before she sees it, metal slicing air. She reacts on instinct, and as she throws one dagger up, she reaches out, snatching the knife from the air.
There’s a scream somewhere below, and Skylar’s breath hisses from her teeth as she wobbles. She caught it the wrong way, blade first, and the slice across her palm is deep. A child, maybe, screams again.
Steady, Lar.
She doesn’t let herself look down. She’s not that high—but falling would still hurt like Vaar. She continues to juggle, adding in the knife someone has so kindly thrown her into the mix—Torin was going to throw her another one anyway. But her hand is slick with blood, and pain sears her palm each time she catches. She feels a surge of anger and without looking, she chucks the knife back into the crowd, in the general direction of whoever threw it at her.
More screams as people duck. People are such fucking wimps, aren’t they?
When she reaches the end of the tightrope, she doesn’t look at anyone as she drops the daggers and climbs down the ladder. There is applause, stamping of feet, people cheering for more. She sees Aldric look at her, all narrow-eyed—but really, it’s not like he can disapprove, is it? He should be pleased—this will have created even more of a distraction for Izzo.
Blood is dripping on the orange clay ground when she reaches the bottom of the ladder, and as Aldric steps forward to announce the next act, Amara hands Skylar one of her scarves. She takes it without thanking her, bandaging her palm one-handed. Amara doesn’t offer to help.
“And now, for our final—” But there is a commotion somewhere at the back of the crowd. A city guard is dragging someone away—a man, no older than Skylar. He is pleading, but his words are lost as a buzzing fills the streets, as footsteps start scurrying away. A few people nearest the guard seem to try to help, but when another guard appears out of nowhere, they back off.
What has the man done? Is he Blooded? But the guards can’t tell just bylookingat someone whether they are Blooded. Right?
Skylar feels an uncomfortable lurch in her stomach as she glances at Aldric. He jerks his head, telling them to get moving. When Skylar looks back at the crowd, Izzo is there, weaving toward them with her tattoo clearly on show—the illusion around her dropped away.
“Time to leave,” Aldric barks. “If the guards are here, then the army might not be far behind. They’re out in force today, and I don’t want to get caught in the middle of something.”
Skylar twists the ring on her finger. She has all of two seconds todecide what to do. But she doesn’t even need that long. Instead of ducking out of sight with Aldric and co., she uses the distraction to slip into the crowd. Izzo sees her, and Skylar nods toward the harbor. For a second Izzo holds her gaze—and Skylar knows she understands. Izzo hesitates, then gives a nod-shrug. Skylar smiles at her briefly before slinking away, glad that Izzo isn’t inclined to try to stop her. The only one who would have is Cam.
And whatever it is you’re doing, I don’t think it’s a good idea.
But it’s not necessarily abadidea, is it? In truth, it’s not much of an idea at all—only that, if Aldric’s right, if the army is here today, then…
Then what, Lar? You going to try to beat my whereabouts from some random soldier?
She ignores that, allowing the thrust of the crowd to carry her toward the harbor. She’s never known so many people in one place—are they all really here to watch the witches arrive? Or is the hope that the dragons will appear—like Cam had thought? She wasn’t born when the last duel happened, but she’s heard rumors that people flocked from all over to see the two heirs try to bludgeon each other to death.
The scent of cracked corn and citrus mixes with the sulfur and spice as she walks—stalls selling things for people to eat while they wait. But there is a fouler smell coating the air, too, one that makes Skylar want to gag. She stumbles to a stop as she sees the cause of the stench. There, up ahead, hanging from one of the dragon plinths, is a corpse. A woman, though it’s difficult to be sure, given the life that has been leached from her body. Dead, no question about it, and already rotting under the harsh sun. But it’s more than that—it’s like her very essence has been sucked from her, leaving behind nothing but a shell. Despite the heat, Skylar shivers.
There are a few people around the feet of the woman, laying stones on the clay earth. One of them—a man—turns to look at her.
His gaze is so intense that Skylar swallows. “What happened?” She can’t help asking. She can’t help wanting to know.
“They said she was a rebel,” he says, voice harsh. “She wasn’t, but what do they care? They had her executed anyway.”
A rebel. So it’s true, then. There are rebels out there, somewhere, fighting against the king. And not doing a very good job, if this woman’s fate is anything to go by. Skylar can think of nothing else to say, so she just moves past him, blending with the crowd once more.
“Place your bets!” A man is waving papers in the air, a bag of coins clinking at his waist. Izzo would have that right off him. “I’ll give you good odds on the little witch,” he says to one passerby, “very good odds.”
“I bet you will,” Skylar mutters under her breath. Then, more loudly, “How do you know she’s little?”
The man turns to frown at her, then shrugs his grubby shoulders. “Figure of speech, isn’t it?”
She scoffs. “A terrible figure of speech.”
