Page 35 of Skyshade
She neared the opening, bowed her head, and listened.
A scraping voice. She vaguely recognized it as belonging to a bald officer who had sneered at her more than once.
“We are your council. If we cannot speak plainly, who can?”
There were some murmurs of approval. A few voices she couldn’t make out.
Then, the officer’s again: “There is a snake in our midst, ruler, and you are blind to it.”
Grim’s voice was as cold as the stone she was leaning against. With predatorial calm, he said, “A snake? Speak plainly, then. Tell me exactly what you mean.”
There was a frustrated sound. “The temptress in your bed is a serpent waiting for the right moment to strike. She is a traitor. Can’t you see—”
He was cut off by a gurgling choking sound, followed by the thud she knew as a person dropping to the floor.
Quiet.
Then, “Does anyone else have any doubts about my wife?”
Not one word.
She took a step back. Another. A small council had intervened to warn Grim about her. A snake, they called her. A traitor.
Isla couldn’t even be mad.
Because, depending on how the prophecy was fulfilled, it could very much be true.
Grim didn’t believe them. He trusted in her. It made her chest twist uncomfortably. They were right. She was working behind his back, lying to him about her true intentions. She had come here, knowing the prophecy, knowing there was a good chance she would kill him. As suspicion rose, her questions seemed more pressing than ever. How long did she have to make the decision? How long did she have to live?
According to the prophet-follower, there was only one way to find out.
THE AUGUR
If the augur wanted blood, she would gladly give it to him.
Lynx glowered at her as she crept past him to the wardrobe in the middle of the night.
Clad in her dagger-filled pants; boots; a long-sleeved, thick fabric wrapped around her hands and forearms; a hood over her head; and a scarf draped over the bottom of her face, she portaled away with her starstick.
It took a few tries to find a larger town, complete with a market, roads that twisted and converged in no decipherable pattern, and plenty of shadowy rooftops from which she could watch.
She could likely kill anyone, but she wouldn’t harm innocents. No; if she was going to kill someone, they would deserve it.
Though the curses were gone and Nightshades could go out after dusk, it seemed centuries of habit weren’t broken in mere months. Or perhaps they were worried about being caught in a storm. The streets were quiet. She leapt across rooftop after rooftop, listening. Studying.
It took a few hours before she discovered its underbelly—a shard of city that had thinner alleys, establishments with basement levels carved into the ground, and bars that didn’t ever seem to close. This would be the spot. She watched, fascinated, for a few nights, discovering people’s routines. A large, bowlegged man went to the same brothel every other night, like clockwork. Just beforehand, he would visit the bar next door for courage. Every morning, just before dawn, he emptied the contents of this stomach in the streets before wobbling home.
Another man—slender and tall with spikes on the back of his boots—lingered by the door of the brothel for hours without ever stepping foot inside. At first, Isla figured he was shy, but when a woman stormed out to demand he leave, she learned he had been banned.
The man didn’t leave after that night. He just got better at lurking in the shadows. Isla had her sights on him, but—though making the women of the brothel uncomfortable was certainly deplorable—he hadn’t yet done anything worth his life. He would, though. She was sure of it. She just needed to wait.
It happened two days later. Isla was sprawled across a rooftop that had a view all the way to the harbor, when a scream split through the night.
The sound made her think of the hundreds of innocents—of the ruin she’d inflicted. How they must have screamed, hoping someone would save them. How she had been responsible...
She was on her feet in moments, leaping across rooftops, bolting toward the sound. It was coming from an alley that ended in a point: three buildings that had sagged together over time, fighting each other for foundation.
There was the slender man—choking a woman who looked no older than she was.
