Page 51 of Skyshade
Saint. It was laughable how ridiculous that word was, when applied to her.
Isla nodded in thanks, not planning to take a sip.
The woman seemed to sense the reason for her hesitation. She raised an eyebrow, found an empty mug on a table, poured half of the offered drink in it, raised it in cheers, and took a hearty sip.
“Decidedly not poison,” she said with a wink. Then, she turned around again and joined the others.
Curiosity got the better of Isla a few minutes later. When no one was facing her, she quickly pulled down her scarf, took a tentativesip, and fought to keep herself from gagging. Yes. Decidedly not poison.
Still, decidedly disgusting.
Again, Sairsha did not keep her word.
They formed a routine. After Isla was done roaming the streets, she would visit the bar for a few minutes. It was filled with the same people every time.
“Why do you come here every night?” Isla asked her one day.
Sairsha shrugged. “I was looking for a sort of family.” She smiled as she looked over at the others. “We all know each other. We have meetings, sometimes, to try to make our town better. Our future better. We’re joined by purpose. And that, I’ve found, can be stronger than blood.”
Purpose.
Each night, they would share a drink; and every time, Isla would pretend to like the warm beer that tasted like it had long gone sour. But Sairsha seemed to love it and would throw her head back and laugh as she told Isla stories about her family and growing up in a small mountain village. It was nice.
“What do you think of the ruler?” Isla asked one day, curious.
Sairsha thought long and hard. “He’s fair. Much fairer than his father, or any before, I’ve heard. Whenever there is some sort of problem, he is always the first one there. He doesn’t just send others. During the curses, he himself built the tunnels with his great power. He spent years creating them. Making sure we were all safe and had enough provisions. He would hand-deliver them.”
She didn’t know why this shocked her, but it did.
Isla remembered him struggling against the dreks. Taking the brunt of the attack himself. Appearing in her room, ravaged by wounds and shadows.
He didn’t just hide behind a palace. He was there, in the thick of it, every time. He put the needs of his people above his own.
Except when it came to her.
She had just crept into bed that night when Lynx nudged her.
“Let me sleep,” she said, turning toward the other side. She barely got a handful of hours of rest a day, thanks to her insistence on playing vigilante every night.
Lynx made a growling sound and pushed her off onto the floor.
She landed in a heap of blankets and glared at him through the darkness. “What is it?”
His green eyes glowed just inches in front of her. He motioned toward the glass. The window.
There was a faint knocking sound, clearly not the wind. The stormfinch was asleep in its cage.
Knocking?
Lynx looked insistent.
She reached toward her necklace, and Lynx growled.
Isla dropped her hand. “Fine. If I die, it’s your fault,” she said to her leopard, and grabbed her blade instead.
She ripped the curtain back.
Her dagger dropped to the floor.
