Promise of Dusk (Endings #1)

Chapter 20

Mariana - Comraich, four days prior

I’m not sure who is more surprised when the blow claps across my face.

Myself, from the shock of having such an obvious, simple strike land on me for the first time in years.

Or my mother, from having actually landed a direct, obvious hit for the first time in years.

Which is exactly the response I’m hoping for.

She doesn’t see the distraction for what it is, brilliant as she is. My beautiful mother—unruly red hairs at her temples escaping their restraints, her brown eyes blown wide with surprise—is not expecting me to strike abruptly afterward. I grip her still partially extended arm, bringing it behind her more swiftly than an adder. A shove brings her to the ground, and I spring over her fallen form, lifting my dagger under her throat, the blade not touching her fair skin. She tries to gather herself and fight it, she really does, but the damage has already been done, solidified in one second of hesitation.

Our panting fills the silence before a booming laugh comes from across the room where my father leans against a cask of ale, our only audience.

I try so hard to keep the taunting look from my face. I really do. But a triumphant smile breaks through as I lift the dagger from her neck and whoop in victory. The sound breaks off when my mother knocks me off her back, springing to her feet.

It’s not often I’m able to best my highly trained, highly competitive, mother.

She pretends for a moment to be upset, narrowing her warm eyes, but the smile pulls at the edges of her lips, her expression giving way to the lines of age that reveal her as my mother and not sister.

“She got you with that one, Elena. Fair and square.” My father’s smiling blue eyes dance from across the cellar, which lives under our family’s tavern—doubling as our training area. He savors this win as much as I do. He gave up sparring with her some time ago, favoring only to spar with me. Though he would never admit that she was better hand-to-hand than him. Their competitive streak goes back farther than my life. It spans across seas and kingdoms. Twines intimately with the love they have for each other.

“She gets that cunning underhandedness from you, Rhodri. Insufferable, both of you,” Mom says, dusting off her skirts.

The conspiratorial look my father and I share confirms her statement. My father may have the look of a brute—tall and muscled from years of training to maintain his physique as an assassin before I was born—but his form contradicts his favored function: poisons and politics. My mother is the more direct type; fighting hand-to-hand with her assignments was her favored tactic back in the days as the Dragon King’s personal assassin in our neighboring country of Ashvynd. She and my father met on a distant battlefield—one of ballrooms and rooftops—two unstoppable forces pitted against one another for opposing causes. A story I have heard too many times to count. One they love telling. It always turns into them sharing longing glances and me feigning nausea.

My father sweeps Mom into his arms. She lets him, but pretends to be holding a grudge, looking down her nose at him. It only makes him smile harder.

“Come now, don’t be cross with me for giving our daughter the best parts of me, Dove. You should be glad for her victory,” he laughs. My mother is nothing if not a sore loser. While she may be playing up the bitterness, its foundations are real. She’ll lure him to spar with her before long. So predictable, yet he’s falling right into her trap. Her ego is bruised, and my father is about to pay the price for it.

Above us, I hear the creak of floorboards, indicating the arrival of a patron. It’s early. Too early for our regulars to peel themselves out of their beds in search of hair of the dog.

My father makes to go upstairs, but I stop him. “I’ll get it. Don’t be too upset, Mom. At your age it’s a wonder you can still walk up the stairs.” I blow her a taunting kiss. I’m as much of a sore winner as she is a loser.

I quickly skip upstairs, escaping her wrath. I hear a deep chuckle, broken off by an “oomph,” then a scuffle—he always takes the bait.

Gross.

My skipping stumbles to a stop once I see who stands drenched in self-importance and the scent of many vices.

“What do you want, Aled?” I don’t bother making my voice friendly. I’m not worried about losing his business; there are no other taverns in Comraich that he hasn’t been barred from .

Everything about him is greasy, from his stubbled face to his shoulder-length unkempt hair. If only he knew to whom he speaks, what I could do to him.

“Message from the Crows. Be at the square by high noon today. They have an announcement to make.” His chest swells with self-importance. The Crows’ bitch his highest title.

I lean against the bar and make a point to look at my nails, see the perfect ovals, long enough to make deep gouges in an attacker, but not long enough to break under pressure.

“I suppose you’re their little rat now. With your new position you could at least make it a point to bathe occasionally,” I say blandly, inspecting the ends of my deep red hair. They could use a trim.

“Watch how you speak to me, bitch. To speak so disrespectfully to me is to speak disrespectfully to the Crows,” he spits back.

I can’t help but huff out a laugh at that. “Is it too much to ask you to come up with a more creative insult? That one is getting a little tired.” I lay my hand down flat on the polished wooden bar top and level him with a stare, let him see the hint of predator in my blue eyes. “Would the Crows protect you from me, Aled? Would you like to find out?”

Just a spark of fear flares in his eyes, just underneath the haze of whatever is dulling his senses. It’s thrilling.

“It’s you who would need protecting from me, bitch.” The threat lingers between us.

But I fear no man.

I sigh, despairing over his limited vocabulary.

He continues. “Just be at the stage, all of you. The sun is already half-way up.” His sneer says he wishes I wouldn’t.

I don’t even bother to acknowledge his departure .

This month they sent the newsprint with Alyx’s portrait. It was alongside a fair-haired male, ‘nameless’ over his portrait. The propaganda comes in every month from the capital. Usually detailing the ongoing struggle with Ashvynd; which towns have been struck by raiders this month, who is wanted by the Pretty King—names and descriptions beside their drawn portraits. They’re always littered with justifications for increased troops, increased control, stories of rebels and their brutal endings.

The artist’s rendition looked like Alyx—sort of. The artist missed one of her most defining characteristics. The sad sort of strength that lives deep in the shadows of one’s eyes, the kind of strength that looks like loneliness from a certain angle. To me, it looks like someone who went through hell alone, and still keeps getting up in the morning. She looks like the paintings of the great salt sea from the coastal artists. Her eyes are as deep as the ocean. I remember the last time I saw her, felt her bony body under my hands. Even in her terror—she seemed lost at sea. Her portrait only captures her straight nose, eyes down-turned at the sides, the whites showing underneath the irises, straight, dirty-blonde hair.

I hope she ran somewhere far away. I hope she disappears like a shadow under the water.

That day… I couldn’t leave her. Couldn’t leave the little girl who raced slugs with me and gave me her coat when I was cold, who half-carried me all the way back to town when I twisted my ankle at her house one day. I’ve always regretted letting her freeze me out so fiercely. She deserved someone to keep trying for her.

A rough hand grips my shoulder. Taken by surprise I shove an elbow back, turning to grab the wrist and bend it behind their back, but I’m thwarted with every move .

I stop my struggling and sigh deeply. He tugs me into a comforting hug, chuckling. His warmth is always my favorite respite.

“Any thoughts too heavy for you to carry, Mary?” he whispers into my hair. Our words. A promise. Some thoughts are so big that you need someone to carry some of them for you. He also always calls me Mary when he wants to take my mind off things. He knows that I am my mother’s daughter, and the best way to take my mind off things is to get under my skin.

“Don’t call me that.” I shove his chest and ignore his question, having already talked this issue out with him too many times to count. “Did Mom win?”

He turns me around. Twin laughing blue eyes meet. “I thought we were supposed to be allies against the brown-eyed one. You sound like you were hoping I would lose.”

“I just want to sleep peacefully and not with one eye open tonight. You know how she gets when she loses twice.”

He sighs deeply, looking skyward. “Fine. She won. But I let her.”

“You. Did. Not.”

I jump. Mom stands, scowling at the other end of the bar.

Sneaky witch.

Nobody in this damned house makes a noise as they move.

Their bickering begins. An endless drone in my ears.

“We are to be at the stage today by noon,” I interrupt.

“What for?” Mom asks.

“Some sort of message.” I gulp. “Probably the usual.” I kick at the ground. I need to sweep in here before patrons come flooding in. They always want to flush out the taste of boot in the mouth. Drown the fear, anger, and helplessness with alcohol .

“Probably,” sighs Dad, face turned skyward. He’s never found answers in between the cracks of ceiling boards, but he always tries.

“This cannot go on, Rhodri,” Mom murmurs.

They share a look. One that speaks of winless arguments and nights spent going in circles.

“What are we to do?” I ask. Who are we to stand against an empire?

“Your mother thinks we should… rally,” Dad says, jaw feathering. The scar going through his brow looks menacing when his eyes are laugh-less.

I wait for more, looking to Mom.

“We cannot run again. We can run to the ends of the world, but it seems that the problem of greed and evil has legs too.” Mom stands in her iron will. Ready to battle it out.

“Look around, Elena, do any of these people look to be in any shape to help anyone? Allies.” He scoffs. “These things take time. It takes planning, infrastructure, resources. We cannot simply rise up.” Dad seems like he’s said this endless times before.

“Then we make them. We cannot just sit here and hope someone else steps up. It’s not happening. We’ve been waiting, and the water just keeps getting hotter,” Mom says evenly.

She’s not wrong. Since Alyx’s escape and the show she made of it at the stage, things have gotten even worse. Curfew is enforced strictly at sundown. Any private gatherings larger than four to a party are forbidden. The nights in the tavern are monitored by the Crows. They station themselves at the edges of the room and watch, listen, and find prey. Comraich has grown numb. Alcohol is one of the few things that allow the people to cope with our circumstances; they’re not about to take it away. Hangings are frequent and an audience is required. Some of them aren’t even given justification anymore. They will kill us all off. Soon.

“Tonight, Rhodri,” Mom says, her voice stern, but her eyes pleading.

She needs his support in this. Strong as she is, he is her partner, in everything. Every choice they make, they make together.

I’ve long since given up hope of finding what they have. There is no way such a love could exist twice in such close quarters, in such a close timeline. It is unfathomable. And if I cannot have what they have, then I will have nothing.

Dad moves into her space, her will crumbling slightly at his closeness. He captures her face in his broad hands. “Tonight.”

She isn’t happy. It’s a bittersweet resolution. To know that the one you love will follow you into Hell.

Melting into each other, my mother holds out her hand to me. A gesture and a question. They would never force me into such a thing.

I could no sooner abandon them than I could cut off a limb.

I step in.

So we stand there, basking in one another. In the charged choice we have made. I know we are all wondering what the consequences will be, for wanting more.

When I was a kid, I used to run wild in the square on summer market days. Dad would chase me from the baker to the stonemason, from the apothecary to the seamstress, making me shriek and giggle the whole way. He could have caught my little legs, could have stopped me. But he let me run. Let me hide and sneak around corners and between farm stands .

The sun basks these memories in love and warmth.

Now its rays warm the sun-drying bodies of the stonemason and the baker where they hang like chimes in the wind from the stage. Eyes that once watched my little legs run are now picked clean by vultures—empty of sight and life, skin splitting and rotting from days in the sun. Their legs are now just bones from where the feral dogs, rats, and cats have stripped flesh from bone.

Where laughter once rang through the air, now flies buzz and vultures caw. No voices, whispers, nor shrieks of joy pierce the droning of flies. No matter how much I bat the incessant buzzing insects away, off my arms, off my hair, they just keep landing. Like they know I’ll be their next meal, and they cannot wait to have a taste. I’ll never understand how some people just let them crawl over their skin, tickle their scalps, and buzz in their ear.

The sun bakes my fair skin, the early summer heat near unbearable when all that’s left of the town stand shoulder to shoulder in front of the stage.

The clouds in the distance are a dark gray, sweeping in a summer storm.

Four Crows look out onto us from between the hanging bodies. The others, numbering thirty or so, surround us.

There’s a new one today. His armor is newly polished, obsidian shining even in the shadows. His gaunt skin matches that of the others, like they haven’t seen the daylight all their lives. Deep circles are under deep-set coal-black eyes. His bald head still has the imprint of his helmet that sat upon it. He has it placed in front of him on the ground. The helmet depicts a red-eyed hellhound, snarling at the crowd from its metallic prison.

It’s terribly beautiful.

This one. He smiles. It twists one side of his mouth, beautifully white, straight teeth bared. His nose lifts slightly on one side, a gleeful snarl more than a true smile. It matches the art on his helmet.

He speaks.

“What a pitiful showing. Is this everyone?” He turns only slightly to the Crow beside him for confirmation. The Crow gives a slight jerk of the chin, looking bored. The newcomer shakes his head disapprovingly. “What a disappointment.”

He doesn’t sound disappointed. He sounds excited; his eyes almost twinkle in anticipation.

“I’ve been sent here personally, by the king.” His lip lifts slightly in distaste when he says it. Interesting that one of the king’s more trusted men would sneer his name in such a way. “To oversee a transitional period here. He states this sorry place has been a hotbed of rebellion. Frankly, I don’t see a spark of any of it in you pathetic bastards. But the reports have been numerous. Reports of escapes that should not be possible. Such a thing must have been aided.” He searches every face. We all stare at the dirt. The stranger begins to speak more quickly, whatever blackened spirit he has alight with sick anticipation.

“He states that such traitors put our nation at risk. Such a place poses a danger to the Crown. To the peace we have fought so hard for. I suggested he kill you all.” He waits, smiling down at us. “Luckily for you miscreants, the king is more than just pretty,” he spits the word out in mockery. “He is also a fair and just king.” He chuckles. “And he stated that there may be some loyal amongst you, some that are worthy of the life of peace and prosperity we have made possible.” He looks to Aled in the front row, who stands there, chin high with sickening pride. The speaker cocks his head, considering him for a moment before going on, “And while I have my doubts, I am nothing if not a humble servant to our lord king. So, beginning tomorrow at first light, we will begin a pilgrimage to lands unsoiled by the stain of rebellion. You are to gather whatever”—he gestures an armored hand weakly—“measly belongings you may have that are of importance to you. You are to meet us here. You are to walk with us to a land where you may be monitored under the watchful eye of the king. To a place where you may be of some value to the Crown. Those who are worthy shall make it there, by the will of god and king.” He looks out on us at the end. Begging for some whisper of discontent, eager to dish out a messy end. I fear he is disappointed. “You are dismissed.”

The first strike of thunder sounds in the distance.

A storm is coming.

None of us move. None of us speak. Some are in shock. But I am in awe. Awe at the blessed timing. In awe at the gift we’ve been given.

Rebellion is a flame. Every fire starts from a spark. This Crow has given us the gift of one.