The Sky Weaver Read online

  She nearly smiled at her good luck.

  To keep from being seen by the thief—Eris—she waited outside. Then waited some more. Finally, Safire retraced her steps back to the door. She would find out exactly where they were meeting in this inn and what their plans were. Once she did, she would return with her soldats and catch two notorious criminals in one night.

  Breathing in deep, Safire pushed the door open and followed the Death Dancer in.

  Six

  When the truth of what she’d done set in, Eris thought of running. She’d stabbed Kor in the ribs without caring that wound might kill him. She’d set fire to the Sea Mistress and taken the only rowboat without considering that some of the crew might not know how to swim. The smart thing to do was to run. But if she ran, Jemsin would send every pirate on the Silver Sea after her—not to mention his summoner. So here she was, crawling back to port like a dog to her master. Wanting to bite, but knowing it would only earn her a swift kick in the ribs.

  Eris moved like a thundercloud through Darmoor’s rain-soaked streets. It had been nearly three days since she’d left the Sea Mistress burning on the Silver Sea. Which was plenty of time for Jemsin to get wind of the news. When Eris closed her eyes, she could still see the sails going up in flames. Could still feel the acrid sting of smoke in her lungs.

  That memory flickered again, of the last time she’d watched something burn.

  She shoved the image away.

  Whatever punishment Jemsin had in store for her, it was better to get it over with.

  Eris made her way past the sprawl of shop fronts and public houses and oil lamps lining the streets. She bared her teeth when the Thirsty Craw came into view. Karsen was out front, easily identified by his barrel-like beer gut and the beard that was probably growing at least three types of mold. After he growled a gruff hello, he pushed the door open. Eris stepped onto a floor sticky with gods knew what, bumping shoulders with someone on their way out. Probably a sailor who’d just spent the last of their wages on food, drink, and women. Eris shook her head, pityingly. She knew the type well.

  Behind the bar, Kiya caught her eye and gave a subtle nod, letting Eris know in one small gesture everything she needed to: Jemsin and the rest of the crew were upstairs, in their usual room.

  Eris smiled her thanks, then headed for the stairs. But someone was already coming down, blocking her way. The moment Eris saw their face, her heart lurched and she stepped behind Karsen. A girl with a rat nest of red hair and a sandpiper tattoo on her pale inner arm headed straight for the bar.

  Rain.

  At the sight of her, Eris’s chest constricted. She ducked into the shadows beneath the stairs, crouching low next to stacked boxes full of whisky, watching Rain talk to Kiya behind the bar.

  Had the Sea Mistress’s crew survived the blaze? The notion brought a rush of relief. Despite her rage at Kor, Eris didn’t want his blood on her hands, nor his crew’s. But how had Rain gotten to Darmoor in the same amount of time as Eris? It wasn’t possible. Unless another ship had seen the Sea Mistress burning and come to its aid.

  Hells, thought Eris.

  She heard Rain utter the words, “Death Dancer.”

  Kiya shrugged nonchalantly as she wiped down a mug of ale and set it back on the shelf. “Haven’t seen her.”

  “You sure about that?”

  Kiya glanced up, arching one black brow in a move Eris knew from personal experience was two parts pretty, one part peril. Kiya smiled that devilishly sweet smile of hers. “She’s often at Moll’s place when she’s in town. You could try there.”

  Rain studied Kiya hard for a long moment. Then glanced out over the dining room, grunted her thanks, and left.

  Eris swung herself out from under the steps. She saluted Kiya, who winked, then took the stairs two at a time. Jemsin’s regular room was at the end of the hall on the top floor. As Eris approached, she stretched, rolling her neck and shoulders, trying to rid herself of the tension building all the way here.

  Finally, she sucked in a breath and rapped on the door the way Jemsin taught her all those years ago. When it swung in, the orange glow of a lantern made her squint.

  “Evening, comrades,” Eris drawled, forcing a lazy grin as she lifted her arm to block the light.

  When they grabbed her shirt, Eris knew better than to fight back.

  They yanked her inside and slammed the door behind her.

  Seven

  It took three hard pulls before the door came open and dust flew into Safire’s face. She sneezed, then froze, listening hard.

  But no sound came from the hall behind her.

  Safire let out a breath, then stepped into the room. Holding up the lamp, she found it full of dusty crates. She sniffed and the smell of old wine engulfed her. A storage room of some kind, then.

  Looking upward, she scanned the ceiling until her gaze caught on the square crawl space door.

  After she’d heard a red-haired girl at the bar say the words “Death Dancer,” Safire ordered a drink, found the drunkest looking man in the room, and asked the right questions. He happily told her all about his golden days, as he coined them. Days when he used the crawl space above the second floor of the inn to watch the patrons undress in the rooms below.

  Safire forced herself to listen to his disgusting escapades, but as she stood beneath the crawl space now, she silently thanked the foul man for giving her precisely what she needed. (And vowed that if she ever found herself the occupant of an inn, she would thoroughly check the ceiling, and maybe the walls, before undressing.)

  Safire began stacking boxes. When they were high enough, she climbed up to the crawl space door and unlatched it. More dust fell. She turned her face in to her elbow to stop the sneeze this time, then pulled her sandskarf up over her nose and mouth. When the particles settled, she lifted the lamp, set it inside the crawl space above, then climbed up after it.

  The space was long and narrow, dark and crowded, and her palms were soon coated in dust. She swiped preemptively at cobwebs while testing each and every board before putting her full weight on it to avoid creaking.

  Half crouching, she made her way toward the far end of the crawl space, pausing every once in a while to listen to the sounds below. When she heard two voices arguing, she stopped just above and set down the lamp.

  Safire slid the sleeve of her shirt across the boards beneath her, wiping away dust and dirt before laying her cheek against the rough wood.

  “I warned you not to wreck things with Kor,” growled a man’s voice, partially muffled by the wood between Safire and the room below.

  Silently, she turned down her lamp, listening.

  “I didn’t wreck it,” came the familiar voice. The one, she was sure, belonged to the Death Dancer. “I set it on fire.”

  Safire found a crack in the boards wide enough to look through and peered into the room below. The surface of a worn table lay directly beneath her. On it a slender wooden object spun around and around, nudged by long fingers.

  That was her thief.

  “I told you to stay on his good side,” said the man through gritted teeth. “Trying to burn him alive is the opposite of his good side.”

  Safire tried to make out just how many people were in the room, but the lighting made it difficult. As she listened, she slid out one of the throwing knives from her belt and began to move the blade back and forth between her knuckles—a trick she’d taught herself while sitting through too many of Dax’s tedious council meetings.

  “He wanted something I couldn’t give him.”

  That wooden object kept spinning.

  “That’s not how this works, Eris,” growled the man. “I don’t care what he wants. Next time, you give it to him.”

  “I may be in your debt, Captain, but I’m not your whore.”

  A chair scraped the wooden floorboards. With the hilt of her knife back in her palm, Safire watched the man’s gray head lean over the table.

  The pirate Jemsin? she wondered.<
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  He slammed his hand down on the spinning object, halting its rotation. A silver ring glinted on his smallest finger. “You are whatever I say you are.”

  And then he lunged for her. Safire flinched as he flipped the girl on her back, pinning her to the table with one meaty hand wrapped around her throat.

  “I can’t afford to carry dead weight around.”

  Safire’s stomach twisted as he squeezed. She watched the girl kick and thrash, trying to push him off. Safire’s whole body coiled, ready to go down there and stop this . . . before she remembered the girl was the Death Dancer. A criminal who—she realized now—clearly worked for Jemsin.

  Not to mention the room below could be full of deadly pirates. And Safire was here alone.

  “I’ll give you one chance,” said Jemsin as the Death Dancer writhed beneath him, trying to dig her nails into his hands. “You got that?”

  Finally, he let go. The Death Dancer moved like wind, scrambling out from under him and landing on the other side of the table, keeping it between them. She gulped down air, hands cupping her neck. Her pale blond hair was a mess and her eyes were wild.

  “I’ve got a new job for you,” said Jemsin. “You get it done, and your debt is paid.”

  The Death Dancer frowned. Her hands fell away from her throat.

  “Paid?” she whispered. “What do you mean, paid?”

  He tossed her the spindle. Eagerly, she caught it.

  “You do this job, and you’ll go free. You can run to the ends of the world, and I won’t follow you. I won’t even care. In fact, I’ll be glad to be rid of you.”

  Safire leaned closer to the crack in the boards, listening hard.

  “But fail me again—sabotage me in any way—and I’ll hand you over to the ones you’re running from. Got it?”

  The Death Dancer watched him in silence for a moment, as if trying to find the loopholes. Finally she said, a little warily, “What’s the job?”

  Jemsin sank back into the chair. “Catch the one they call the Namsara,” he said. “And bring her to me.”

  Safire went stone-still, her whole body attuned to that title.

  The Namsara.

  Asha.

  What did the deadliest pirate on the Silver Sea want with Safire’s cousin?

  The Death Dancer was saying something else but so softly, Safire couldn’t hear it. She shifted, trying to listen. But as she did, the board beneath her creaked.

  The air turned immediately cold as the room below plunged into silence.

  Safire froze as a soft thud echoed—the sound of two chair legs lowered to the floor. A heartbeat later, between the crack in the boards, two watery brown eyes peered into hers.

  Safire rolled back just as a knife surged up between the boards, narrowly missing her face. When she turned to look, the blade was so close, her breath fogged the steel.

  “Come out, little spy,” Jemsin called up to her.

  Safire jumped to her feet as a loud thump! resounded, followed by the crack of breaking wood. The board between her boots splintered and lifted, letting light shine through the slit and into the crawl space.

  The man barked an order. But Safire didn’t hear what it was—she was already running.

  Through cobwebs, kicking up dust, tripping over things in the dark, Safire did not care that her racket could likely be heard throughout the entire inn. Quickly, she lowered herself into the storage room and jumped down from the stacked crates.

  The moment her boots hit the floor, she swung open the door . . .

  And ran straight into the person standing beyond it.

  “Oof.”

  Nimble hands grabbed her arms. Safire flinched, glancing up into two green eyes flecked with gold.

  The air shifted around her.

  Illuminated by the glow of the lamps was a small, slender girl. Her pale, messy hair was knotted at her neck and she smelled like the sea.

  “Now where are you running off to?” The Death Dancer smiled as her fingers reached to pull down the sandskarf hiding Safire’s face. Before she could, Safire flicked out the hidden folding knife in the toe of her boot and kicked her in the shin, embedding the sharpened metal point deep into her flesh.

  That smile vanished as the girl cursed, reaching for her leg.

  Safire rammed into her shoulder, knocking her off balance. The girl stumbled backward into the wall. But as Safire whirled and moved for the locked door leading out into the hall, the girl was suddenly before her again, blocking her way.

  She moved so fast. It was impossible. . . .

  Safire stepped back, drawing two knives.

  The girl’s green eyes flashed. She stood like a wild cat now: lithe and dangerous. But she carried no weapons. At least none Safire could detect.

  Safire’s sandskarf obscured her voice as she said, “Get out of my way.”

  “Show your face and I’ll think about it.”

  Safire threw the first knife. It thunked into the door next to the girl’s head.

  “That’s your first and only warning.”

  The girl touched her ear, where the blade had grazed the lobe. Her pale brow folded into a bewildered frown.

  Safire readied the second knife, keeping her eyes on her opponent.

  “You’re trapped, sweetheart,” the girl said as footsteps rang out down the hall. Jemsin’s pirates were on their way. “There’s nowhere to go.”

  Safire spun, looking to the window. It was small, not to mention two stories off the ground. But she’d rather take her chances with the window than the pirates outside the door.

  She needed to warn Asha. Needed to get to her before Jemsin did.

  As soon as she started for the window, though, the Death Dancer was there. Blocking her way. Again.

  Safire growled, then aimed the second knife—trying for a blow that would immobilize, but not kill—and threw it.

  In a blink, the girl was gone. The steel thunked into the plaster.

  She reappeared a heartbeat later, standing once more before Safire.

  It was unnatural. No one could move like that.

  “Demon,” she murmured, stepping back.

  Was this why she carried no weapons? Because she could dodge any blow?

  “There’s no need to be unkind.” The Death Dancer’s mouth bent up at the side as she moved toward Safire. “Now what’s behind that scarf you don’t want me to see?”

  Safire took another step back, but those quick fingers snagged her sandskarf. The girl tugged it free, revealing Safire’s face.

  Those green eyes went wide. “You.” Her voice became a whisper. “What are you doing here?”

  Putting a stop to this, thought Safire. She drew a third knife and pressed its honed tip into the hollow of the girl’s throat. Those nimble hands went palm up as Safire backed her into the wall beneath the window, her knee pinned between the girl’s legs, ensuring she couldn’t escape again.

  Safire was just about to rap the hilt hard against her temple and watch her drop when there was a sharp prick of pain in her neck. Like a scorpion sting.

  Safire blinked.

  She saw the thorn of the scarp thistle dart—gripped in the girl’s hand—too late.

  A heartbeat later, the room rocked. The Death Dancer’s mouth—twisting into a cruel smile now—blurred before her.

  Safire’s legs started to tremble. Her fingers—suddenly unable to grip—slipped from her knife, which fell to the floor. Before her legs gave out completely, an arm came around her waist, holding her upright.

  The room spun. The Death Dancer ducked beneath Safire’s arm, looping it around her shoulder.

  “You drugged me,” Safire realized, the sentence fuzzy in her mouth.

  The last words she heard before the world faded were, “Aye, princess.”

  A Becoming

  One morning, Crow found the fisherman’s daughter high up the cliffs, far from the footpaths, picking berries. He watched her gather handful after handful of the small dark orbs, drop
ping them into her basket—except for when she dropped them into her mouth.

  Crow had never known hunger. Watching her made him curious.

  “What does it taste like?”

  Her eyes snapped to him. “You’ve never eaten one?”

  He’d never eaten anything. Why would he need to?

  He didn’t tell her this.

  She picked a plump dark berry and held it up. “Open your mouth.”

  He did. As she slid the berry in, her fingers brushed his lips. The juice of the berry, the touch of her skin . . . it was like a spell. Changing him. Where he’d once been content, an aching need now gnawed at his insides.

  He tried to banish it. But this new feeling persisted, snapping and growling like a wolf cub. Getting louder and fiercer inside him.

  Was this hunger?

  It unsettled him. He left her there in the cliffs, with her basketful of berries, wanting to escape it. But weeks later—or was it months?—the need drove him back.

  He found her in a tiny one room house overlooking the cove. It was hot inside. Crammed with people dressed not for fishing or farming, but for celebrating. Families had gathered here for a binding.

  Skye sat on a rotting pine bench at the back of the room. Her spindle and wool were gripped tight in her hands and her gaze was fixed so intently ahead, she didn’t feel him sit down.

  Crow looked where she looked—to the young couple at the front. The young man had Skye’s raven-dark hair and stubborn chin. He reached tenderly for his new wife, sealing their union with a kiss.

  He remembered the dark, plump berry.

  What would it be like?

  He looked to Skye. Saw the same curiosity in her eyes.

  What would she be like?

  That question scared him most of all.

  Here is danger, he thought. And so he fled.

  Eight

  Safire woke on the deck of a ship. Though the world blurred around her, she knew it was a ship because the wood beneath her cheek was damp, she could hear the squawk of gulls, and she felt the gentle rock of what could only be the sea.