Promise of Dusk (Endings #1)

Chapter 31

Mariana

My muscles burn with purpose, yet are lax with exhaustion as I join the group in the cave. Mist clings to my skin, forming little drops on my flaming hair as I pass beneath the roaring falls.

We will rest here for the night, having spent the past two days traversing the Ghael mountains, overlooking Slaver’s Canyon. Far beneath us, in the roots of the mountain, corpses litter the mines. Slaves clamber over skeletons of their fallen comrades, fallen family, just to make it through one more day in hell. I can see them, like ants scurrying about. Dark figures observe, herding, whipping, keeping the peace.

Some sick humor remains, tearing a macabre laugh from my chest at the thought. Peace.

The Ghaels are brutal, stone mountains, jutting from the earth like vicious teeth. Titans lording over the pass between nations, waiting for you to die at their feet. Every step feels like a defiance of some greater god. A few of our group has already fallen halfway down cliff-sides due to the rock peeling away beneath their feet. They’re hurt and chastened, but alive.

We are scraped and starved, exhausted and losing purpose. My fragile leadership weighs heavy, bringing me to the verge of collapse.

Whispers of the Wildes, the group of raiders said to haunt these mountains, flit through the camp like embers, sparking fear. The Reaper who leads them is legendary. He has eradicated entire towns in his quest to be a thorn in the side of the Crown. A worthy cause, I almost think, but his method leaves something to be desired. Is there a way to wage a war without the deaths of bystanders and innocents? That thought haunts my every waking moment. It seems the Reaper has rid himself of such a heavy debate.

The days have been long and the nights longer, growling stomachs roaring through the night. My family and I have our portraits on newsstands by now. We’ve sent a few less-recognizable rebels into the villages and towns along the way. They purchase rations, supplies, and anything we can get away with. They try to spark discussion in taverns of fairness and justice. Perhaps a rallying cry always begins as a whisper.

We hunt and forage along the way to fill the gaps in sustenance. It slows us in our trek, but dead men need not worry about pace. The groundhogs and rodents that burrow within the stone have been tricky. Way too intelligent and keen-eyed to be overgrown rats, as they appear. Our funds have dwindled to almost nothing. A painful precipice, a gust of wind may topple an entire rebellion. The thought runs in circles through my mind from moonrise to sunset.

My people pass around their meager dinners, sucking the marrow from bones, licking filthy fingers clean of whatever fats melt onto them. Someone offers me a bit of leg of some poor mountain goat as I stand over the group, ensuring everyone has something to eat. I accept, gratefully. It is gone quickly, but I needed to silence the sound of my organs devouring themselves. Mom says I’m a stress-eater. Unfortunately, we haven’t had the resources these days to cope in such a way, so I’m a ball of restless energy.

As people mill about, their murmurs and community echoing through the cave, I grasp my arms, holding myself back to keep from pacing, despite barely having the energy to keep standing. I see the vultures, though. I see Tarrant, arm in a sling but with a full belly, staring up at me like he waits for the moment I pass out so he can kill me.

He doesn’t realize that I fear no man. I could kill him in my sleep. I could kill him as a corpse.

His eyes make the dagger at my hip feel heavier. Veins of cobalt run through its blade. It is formed from a strange metal—a rare type of ore, one might think—so rare I’ve never seen it before. One that could fund a rebellion, or at least stave off hunger for another fortnight.

My voice is authoritative as I shoulder my pack and declare, “We will stay here for the next couple of nights. Or until I return. I will be going to town briefly to see if I can upturn our position. I think I can get us some coin, some more rations. I will return by tomorrow night. We need rest anyways. A day of hunting for more rations to dry and preserve will serve us well as we ascend further into the Ghaels.”

I look to my people, hollow-eyed, but looking up at me with trust. Trust that I will prove myself worthy of. That trust burns something in my chest.

“You need rest too, Mariana,” Sara says, from her place in the corner. Her son, Henry is asleep under her arm. “Rest a night and then go down.” She gestures at the fire .

The thought of spending another sleepless night in these caves, with nothing but my thoughts and hunger chasing me in circles is unbearable.

“I must go now. I can move quickly alone. I’ll see you again tomorrow.” I force something like confidence into my shoulders, my face. “Keep out of trouble. Especially Henry.” I smirk lightly, forcing energy into my steps as I depart.

“I’ll go with you,” my mom says, appearing by my side suddenly.

I flinch. God, will she ever stop moving as quiet as a ghost? “No, Mom. I’ll go alone, and you’ll stay here and make sure Osian doesn’t convince everyone to leave me.”

“Sara is right. You have to slow down. Sleep through the night.”

“I don’t want to. There is too much that needs doing.”

She grips my arm, pulling me to a stop just outside the entrance to the cave. The waterfall roars in our ears.

“You have to stop feeling guilty. He would have wanted you to take care of yourself. You can’t keep on like this. You’ll fall asleep on your feet and tumble over a cliff. You have to slow down.” She’s practically yelling to be heard over the cacophony. The mist collects in water droplets that run over her freckled face. They look like tears.

“You too,” I say simply. I see her bloodshot eyes. I know she doesn’t sleep. She barely eats, she sneaks it to Henry whenever she thinks I’m not looking. She’s trying to be strong for me, but I know better. I’m trying to be strong for her too—for everyone. And it makes me feel like I’m going insane. Maybe I am. Maybe we both are. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Stay here. Do all those things you told me to do, and I’ll do the same when I get back if you do. Keep them safe. Keep them smart. I need you here. There is no one that I trust more. Please. ”

She starts to shake her head in denial, water flicking everywhere. She must see the look on my face though, for she just sighs deeply, puts her palm to my cheek—scarred from the slice across it the night we set Comraich ablaze—and says, “Like my life depends on it, Mar.”

One nod. Then I’m off.

I make good time on my journey down, but my muscles are weak. Even so, I only slip on the rolling pebbles a few times.

My ass is going to be bruised in the morning.

As I revel at the silence of the night, I’m already beginning to dread my trek back up tomorrow.

The night melts into lavender dawn as I take my first step on level ground. I skirt around the canyon, crossing back over the roaring river at its lowest point. Back on the merchant-worn road, I keep my hood over my flaming hair as I traipse into town, keeping an eye out for the Crows and their otherworldly hounds. Keeping an eye out for a particular, single-eyed monster.

The town of Gormes, nestled at the foot of the mountains, is filthy busy. Everything is covered in a layer of grime born of dirty deeds. Earning coin off the back of slaves—poor souls who did not pay their taxes pay now with flesh, sweat, and blood, until the Crown deems their debts repaid. The mine owners are some of the wealthiest people in Suri, combating even those of the rolling green estates of Farus. The slave owners facilitate the repayment of debt to the Crown, taking a huge cut. They uphold a bustling economy for the merchants that pass through, always willing to throw their coin at a trader for a rare artifact, if only to display that they can.

I amble past a newsstand, running my eyes over it as I walk. Nothing specific of our rebellion in the postings. Only the normal propaganda. News of the raiders, fearmongering, justifying the oppressive presence of the Crows. The Dragon King’s threats of war loom over the country.

As I slide my eyes over the ransom posters, I spy one of the Reaper. His face is frightening. Some say his flesh was melted off by the Pretty King himself, punishment for some offense before he turned enemy to the Crown. Whatever the reason, his skin is scarred, melted together in twisted masses. Ordinary blue eyes stare out of scarred skin. The man that haunts my people’s nightmares.

I’ll kiss the dirt of the Ghaels if my group never runs into his.

A poster of my father stops my heart in my chest. My eyes in another face. What a cruel twist of fate for the artists to capture the likeness of this one face so startlingly true. The scar through his eyebrow makes him look positively criminal. My mother’s portrait is beside his, looking so like me that I tuck my hood closer.

I shouldn’t stare at the posters; I’ll draw attention. I barely keep my trembling knees locked in place, keeping me from falling to them.

Will I ever get another chance to simply look into his face?

I cried for others. When the Crows came and laid waste to entire families and displayed their cruel trophies for all to see, I cried for their families—for their loss. I don’t know if it is a strength or a weakness, to feel the loss of another.

I have not cried for this loss though. It feels like too small a gesture—too little to pay tribute. This burning emptiness feels like a more apt offering. To live with a gaping wound in the center of one’s chest forever, silently and stoically. Is it enough?

Never .

Like my life depends on it.

I walk away.

My steps are forceful, splashing mud up my pants as I storm further into town, seeking a merchant with whom to bargain.

I wonder if this is what drove Alyx away—this rage. Living with injustice pressing on your chest every waking moment, having to pretend it’s not. Masquerading for others’ sake.

The collectors ride past, hauling a cart full of freshly enslaved men, women, and children. The last one draws a second glance from me. I had heard of forcing children to pay the debts of their non-able bodied parents, but the sheer number of them makes my steps falter. Unseeing eyes, hopeless.

The kind of anger it incites is of another kind.

Burning resentment feeds into burning injustice—something I can hold and use.

The crowds around me mill about, unaffected. Trading, bartering, funnelling through the streets in apathetic greed.

I come upon a building crowded with an eclectic mix of tools and statues. The door creaks as I push it open, finding an even more overwhelming number of trinkets and oddities crowding the small shop. It smells of must and dirt. My footsteps thump against hollow wood in the silence.

“Hellooooo,” a croaking female voice calls out. I square my shoulders and harden my eyes as I round a tower of eccentric baubles. A veritable maze of maces, cheese knifes, saddles, stone carvings of some voluptuous goddess, snowshoes, and hats.

The hunched figure stands at a counter polished from use, various blades and weapons hanging from the wall behind her. Wiry white hair is messily pulled back, revealing a wrinkled face, tanned and spotted by the sun.

“What have ye’ lass?” a toothless mouth lisps.

I don’t put my hood down, keeping my hair tucked back and face lowered.

“Something that requires a bit of discretion. Do you have it?” I keep my voice low.

Her eyes take on a greedy gleam through their opaqueness. “Certainly… For a price.”

Of course. A creature born of greed would always demand more.

I cock my head at her, contemplating. “Funny thing, discretion. It’s only worth anything if we both have it.” I cock my head the other way. “So how about this? You see what I have, sell it for what I’m sure is a pretty coin, keep your mouth shut about where it came from, and I won’t tip the Crows off about the gigantic cellar you have underneath your floorboards, full of unsavory objects, I’m sure.” It’s only a hunch, but the tightening of her lips tells me it was a good one. “I know I can uphold my end of discretion, but can you? Or will you have to hope that I don’t reach you before the Crows do? It would truly be a fun game for me.”

Her lips mash together in annoyance. I wonder how she likes the taste of her own poison.

“I don’t take threats kindly, lass.” But I see the waver in her brow, the quiver in the corner of her mouth. “And I would na’ stay in business so long if I allowed customers to bully me out of a fair price. I believe our transaction to be over. Me son will be back soon, ye’ best run along now.”

I have to admire the way she straightens and strengthens. But I don’t deserve my people if I cannot provide for them—if I cannot win for them every time.

I lean casually on her counter, propping my chin on my palm, my voice lilting and wretched. “You don’t have a son. And nobody is coming to save you from me.” I let her see the cruel in me. “But I fear we have gotten a bit out of hand, don’t you agree? I simply want to draw on your expertise and perhaps make a trade. A fair trade. Can we not do that?”

It’s almost funny, how little pressure it takes to crush a worm. It almost makes me sick. It makes me see how easy it must have been for the Crows. How easily we bend.

Well I am done bending—breaking.

If I am to break, I’ll shatter and make them all bleed.

She gives a singular, begrudging nod.

My smile is as fake as fake gets, showing her my teeth just as surely as I showed them to her with my threats.

I pull the dagger from my belt, showing the cobalt streaks running through black steel, glinting under the candlelight. It thumps heavily on the counter as I lay it in front of her.

It may as well be a viper.

She takes a wobbly step back and her eyes widen. “Where did ye’ get tha’, girl?”

“Not in question,” I push back firmly, baffled by her reaction. “How much will you give me for it?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. But ye’ best take it and get going.” Her wrinkled hands go to her generous hips. “Go on, girl. I won’t say a word, but ye’ have to leave.”

“Why won’t you take it? Clearly it is of impeccable build. And a rarity.”

She stares mulishly at me before saying, “Tha’ blade is made only for the king’s use. For his highest-ranking generals. Mined by the slaves in these very mountains. Coveted by two kings for some reason I’m not privy to. I trade in many things, girl. But I will na’ trade in such wickedness. Its mere presence is a death sentence.”

So she fears that it’s owner will come seeking it. “Surely you can put it in your floorboards like you do your other less savory trades.”

“Girl. The only way ye’ got yer hands on that thing is by killing one of those things. Now I don’t know how ye’ did it, or what game yer playin’, but I’ll do ye’ a favor and tell ye’ to get that and get out of town. Throw it in the river if ye must, but ye won’t find a willin’ buyer anywhere here. Don’t go wearing it about. It’s the mark of a traitor. And more than that, I would also urge you to find sometin’ to blacken yer hair. Ye’ think I don’t recognize ye’ from those posters?” She raises her non-existent eyebrows at me. “Go, before ye get us both killed. I won’t utter a word of it, but ye must leave. Now. I’ve told ye everything ye need know.”

My face flushes slightly. If she recognizes me because I look so like my mother, who else did?

The look in her opaque eyes tells me that I will not be asked nicely again.

I swipe the dagger from the counter and fasten it back to my belt.

The morning is well under way as I step out, drawing my hood further down my face.

How am I going to feed my people? I have no money, and no means to earn it quickly.

I make it to the river, lost in my thoughts, unable to cross it—unable to return empty-handed.

The mines sit upriver, across the bank from the city. I can see them from here, a giant wound in the root of the mountain. I may as well be one of the ants milling around, toiling away in it. Is this madness? This life we live. Is this all it is? Can fighting every day to merely survive be everything?

I stare at the fast-moving waters, smelling its freshness, its chilled viciousness. I could let it carry me down, winding down through the countryside. I could see all I can survive, be grateful for its thrashing and simplicity in my final moments.

I have no clue how long I stare at it. How long I think about following my fears into the white waters.

But when I come to, I have a plan.

Dusk’s valiant light warms me with a promise of more as I dip behind the waterfall, squinting against the mist.

Blades scrape against sheaths at the sound of my steps. I raise my hands and call out, “It’s me!”

Sighs of relief fill the deep cave as I come up on them. They all seem more well-rested than when I left, sitting around a blazing fire, chewing on mountain goat. I’m glad their hunts were successful today. My trio of adversaries look disappointed; I suppose they hoped I would be arrested or killed in town. I give them a sardonic smile. I’m certain at least one of them tried to make a play for my seat while I was gone.

Mom looks only slightly better as she walks to my side, rubbing a hand over my shoulder, in thanks for returning, I suppose. I’m not certain she will ever lose that solemnity. How does one go on when they lose a soul-mate? Walking around with only half of a heart for the rest of your days?

Sara gives me a warm smile, running her eyes over me as she looks for anything awry.

“We cannot continue on like this. We need to make a power play. One that will help our cause and our struggles. One that makes a statement,” I begin.

The crowd watches with rapt attention, my words apparently resonating with them.

“As I was in Gormes, I found myself pondering our problems. If we continue into the Ghaels, we will probably all meet our ends. And it leaves us with the possibility of meeting the Wildes.” People nervously gulp as I give voice to everyone’s fears. “We have a mountain full of potential allies beneath our feet. Not only allies, but a mountain full of injustice beneath our feet. A mountain full of mineral that is highly desired by both Ashvynd and Suri. A fort full of supplies and infrastructure, nestled against a mountainside, easily held.” Silence rings in the wake of my proposition.

“Yes, Marianna, a mountain easily held.” Osian looks at me like I’m daft. “A mountain crawling with Crows who far outnumber us.” He shakes his head at me, looking around at all the agreeing faces, gathering power from it.

“They outnumber us, now. But by my count they do not outnumber the slaves. All we need to do is what we’ve needed to do all along—liberate them. Something tells me they won’t need much convincing to join our cause. Or they may flee, seeking asylum in Ashvynd. They will find themselves pondering the same roads we look down. I know what we all have chosen. I want to believe they will feel the same and join us.”

“How do you propose we liberate them?” Eldrick asks. “They are within and we are outside.”

“I propose that we have forces inside and out. I propose we maintain our position out here, while we send in a few to rally within the camps. Coordinate an attack from both sides.”

Apprehension thickens the air. Apprehension mingled with possibility. My people are considering it.

“You’ll have a difficult time getting one of us to go into the slave camps,” sneers Tarrant.

I nod. “You’re right. I wouldn’t venture to ask such a thing. I will go.”

I snub the largest flame of doubt with those words .

My mother grits her teeth beside me, but she won’t oppose me in front of the others.

“Mariana, you are our leader. You will have to learn to delegate such dangerous tasks,” Sara speaks out, shaking her head in concern. “What if we fail? Who will lead?”

I consider her for a moment.

“Perhaps… but not now. This rebellion is a fledgling, and we all know it. I would not ask any of you to risk so much, not now. If we are to succeed, we may discuss my delegating such tasks. But for now, I am not so important that I cannot be replaced.” I consider her question, who will lead if I die? Can I leave such things up to chance? “As for who will lead… I propose you elect a new leader. The numbers will tell where the people’s trust lies.” I nod, satisfied with my solution. But I am unwilling to throw my backing behind anyone. Perhaps the offer is enough to prevent betrayal from those who begrudge my being a woman. From those who want my seat for themselves.

There are no more protests, the people uneasy but accepting. I think many of them don’t relish the thought of all this uncertainty but understand the need for it. We are weak. We need strength in numbers and resources and have no other way to get it.

Mom pulls me aside as conversation begins to buzz about the cave.

“I will go with you,” my mother says firmly.

“You know you can’t.” I look her in her brown eyes. “I need someone I trust, implicitly, on the outside. I know you won’t leave me there. And I won’t be able to do my job effectively if you’re there with me. People will know you’re my mother. We look too alike.”

She looks as if I asked her to leap off a cliff. “You want me to let my daughter walk into a slave camp, without me? That is your play? Do you know what you’re asking?”

“If we both go in, where is the promise we will get out? Can you look me in the eye and say that you have enough trust in any one of them to ensure we aren’t left behind?” I think of the starving faces of my people. Corpses littering the floor of a mine. There is no other choice to be made.

“Then send me. That is a much safer move. I have more years of experience. I am far less important. Send me.” Her eyes narrow, sure of her win.

For a moment I think she has.

“I don’t trust you,” I whisper.

Her eyebrows raise in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t trust you to come back. To not take unnecessary risks. You’ve also never been much for politics or diplomacy, which we might need if we are to convince these people to agree to a war. And I won.”

She flounders for all of two seconds before saying, “You won?”

“The sparring match. The last one. I won.”

She scoffs. “Only by cheating.”

“I didn’t cheat. I outmaneuvered you. I won,” I assert, bristling at her tone.

Her mouth is slightly ajar. “I’m still less important than you.”

“Not to me,” I say, firmly. “And besides, I don’t plan on dying in that place.”

She nods, looking irate at having been pinned in a corner. “You won’t die in that place.” It’s more of an assertion but comes out as a question.

“I will not.”

She looks around, as if unable to look me in the eyes as she nods her defeat.

“Thanks mama,” I say gently .

I haven’t called her that in years.

As the dusk fades to night, we plot.

By the time I wake the next morning, sunrise brings with it the hope of justice.