Page 14 of Dark Bringer (Lord of Everfell #1)

Kal

S he kept her head down as she hurried along Rua Capitolana, the collar of her peacoat flipped up to hide the ship tattoo on her neck—an impulsive decision from happier days that only made her stand out.

Blustery morning rain had left the gutters choked with wilted paper idols. No one touched them, not even the street rats who scrounged coins cleaning the sidewalks in front of shops. Everyone knew it was bad luck.

Kal could write a damned book on bad luck.

How she wished they had never gone into that abandoned mine.

Durian would be with her right now, arguing about whose turn it was to brew a pot of kopi over the campfire.

They’d watch the sun rise and then they’d go searching the canyons for Sinn artifacts.

Collectors paid big money for a scale or claw.

Instead, she was stuck in Kota Gelangi and witches were hunting them both.

Seven days had passed since Durian went into the river. A week of repeating the same desperate mantra: He’s alive. He knows how to swim. We’ll find each other .

Kal’s gut tensed as the crowds parted for a tall witch walking his caracal. The massive cat padded beside its master, its green eyes sweeping the street. He wasn’t one of the pair they’d tangled with, but maybe they were all looking for her now.

Travian’s bones!

Kal almost panicked but forced herself to keep walking. If she crossed the avenue, she’d just draw attention to herself.

Act casual. Don’t make eye contact.

She turned to a shop window, catching a glimpse of her bouncy halo of dark brown curls and long, rangy stride. The caracal’s ear tufts twitched as she passed, but the witch didn’t pay much attention to her. She released the breath she’d been holding only after rounding the next corner.

Ten more minutes and she reached Liberty Square, with the Red House on one side and ornate office buildings on the other. They had rooftop billboards advertising the city’s gossip rags. Kota Confidential, The Provincial Gazette, Rumor Has It, and The Daily Mumble.

Kal slipped into a park next to the square, which offered the best view while providing cover. It was her and Durian’s meeting place. If they were ever separated, they’d come to the monument dedicated to the Trinity, wait until sunset, and repeat daily until they found each other.

The bronze statue sat atop a slab of black marble in the center of the square. Valoriel stood on the left, broad wings unfurled, gazing outward with stern authority. Durian referred to him as the “tasty beefcake” of the Trinity, which was true but almost certainly some kind of heresy.

Beside the father of the angels, the witch goddess Minerva held a pick in one hand and a handful of gems in the other. And on the right, Travian, sire of the humans.

Unlike the other gods, whose forms were unchanging, Travian was sometimes depicted as male, sometimes as female. This particular statue was long-haired and androgynous. Travian strummed a lute, face caught in a moment of sardonic amusement, as if they alone understood some cosmic joke.

Durian had been raised in the Cult of the Bard, a loosely organized offshoot that claimed Travian had never left Sion and was still around, walking among his children in disguise.

Durian was an avid believer, unlike Kal, who cared less about absentee gods and more about getting out of Pota Pras.

But every day, she had prayed to Travian to keep an eye on her best friend. To help them find each other.

She sat down against a tree whose leaves were turning to autumn gold.

There were hardly any trees in Pota Pras so she couldn’t say what kind it was.

That’s the sort of thing Durian would know.

His mother had moved around a lot when he was young, and he loved to tease Kal for being a provincial rustic, while he was a sophisticated man of the world.

From her vantage point, she could see anyone approaching the monument from three directions.

If witches came, she’d know they had caught him and she’d run before they saw her.

But she still hoped Durian would show up eventually.

He was smart. He knew how to hide. His limp might slow him down, but he’d make it.

She hadn’t slept properly since their escape, managing fitful dozes under the bridge, one ear alert for footsteps. Her stomach cramped with hunger. The last of her coin had purchased a heel of bread two days ago. But she refused to leave Kota Gelangi without him.

A juggler set up near the monument, tossing bright red balls in a widening circle. A crowd gathered, children shouting with glee as he added a sixth to the rotation. Kal scanned their faces, searching for Durian’s sandy hair and birthmark, but he wasn’t among them.

Hours passed. The sky deepened to cobalt. The juggler counted his coins and departed. She watched the last of the daylight fade and the street lamps wink on, all at the same time.

Disappointment crashed down. Durian wasn’t coming. But tomorrow, she promised herself, tomorrow he’ll turn up. She could hear his voice in her head as he told some crazy story. Bitch, you’ll never believe what happened to me . . .

She retraced her steps to Rua Capitolana, merging with the evening crowds. She didn’t see any witches. But as Kal paused at a corner, waiting for a gap in the traffic, she overheard two men in silk hats and billowing qandrissi pants talking.

“Casolaba had it coming. Too many fat fingers in too many pies.”

“Maybe so, but do you want the Miners’ Union in charge? They’re threatening to strike again and that’s never good for business.”

“The Freedom League is positioning Primo Roloa to take his place.” A snort. “Assuming he isn’t the one who had Casolaba eliminated.”

Kal didn’t follow politics, but even she knew that Barsal Casolaba was the consul of Satu Jos. She stepped over to a brightly-lit kiosk at the next corner and scanned the headlines.

MORNINGSTAR GROUNDED! Will shocking attack on magistrate stall murder probe? High-ranking sources express doubts . . .

Kal picked up the paper and read the first few paragraphs. The consul had been found hanging from the spire of the Red House. An archangel had come from Kirith to investigate, and someone had hurled him from a building and broken his wing. There were no arrests yet in either crime.

As she turned the page to keep reading, a smaller article caught her eye: LUZ CRIES FOUL ON DROWNING! The head of the Miners’ Union is demanding answers in the tragic death of a young rockhound pulled from the Bessemer River five days ago . . .

The newsprint blurred. Blood thundered in her ears. A mistake. It had to be someone else.

Her frantic gaze skimmed the newsprint. The authorities wouldn’t release his name until the family had been notified, but he was said to be from Pota Pras?—

“You buying that?” asked the boy running the kiosk.

Kal shook her head. She replaced the broadsheet with fingers that felt detached from her body. The world around her continued its noisy, oblivious orbit. Hers had just stopped spinning.

A heavy, dense pain crouched on her chest like someone had buried a pick there. She made herself turn and walk away.

Kal paid no attention to where she was going.

Random memories cropped up. Durian at thirteen, new to the neighborhood, sheepishly knocking on her door the first time his mother locked him out.

At sixteen, drawing elaborate maps of the places they’d travel to someday.

At twenty-two, his green eyes wide with wonder as he examined the mysterious stones.

Eventually, Kal looked up to find herself back at the bridge spanning the narrowest stretch of the river.

For the last week, she’d slept in a nook where the foot met the embankment.

Once she was safely in her hideaway, she dropped to her knees and dug the kaldurite from her coat pocket.

She loosened the drawstring and took out one of the stones.

It glowed evilly in the semi-dark, shifting from blue to red to violet. Cold, so cold it burned.

Kal stared at the black water rushing beneath the bridge, remembering another river, this one deep underground, its calm surface reflecting the beams of their electric torches.

* * *

She’d never liked the abandoned Clear Creek Mine. Twelve men had died there in a tram accident and she felt sure it was haunted. The entrance gaped like an open wound in the hillside, timber supports rotting at the edges, warning signs bleached by the sun.

But when Durian had rousted her from her bed at dawn, alight with the fever of discovery, she’d agreed to check it out. Now, standing at the mouth of the tunnel, she wondered if desperation had driven them both mad.

“We agreed never to go past the first collapse,” she reminded him. “It’s too unstable. And you promised—you swore on Travian’s name—that you’d never go exploring underground alone.”

Durian turned to her, the sandy flop of hair not quite concealing the port wine birthmark that covered one sharp cheekbone. His smile was unrepentant. “You’re missing the big picture.”

“The big picture is our corpses mummifying down there if we get trapped.”

“Bitch, you sound like my mother.” He rifled through his pocket. “Have a look.”

Kal held the rock up to the morning sun. A rough garnet, about the size of her palm, with several reddish seams. Worth a decent amount, but not a trip into the city. Not for one. “Where’d you find it?”

“Just a little way in. I’m sure there’s more.” He waggled an eyebrow. “Maybe a lot more.”

Kal handed it back. “You risked your scrawny ass for this?” But even as she scolded him, she felt the familiar pull of possibility. You never knew when the big strike might come. They hadn’t found anything worth selling in weeks. She sighed. “Define a little way in .”

“I found a new passage where the main shaft collapsed.” His eyes were pleading now. “Come on, we’re already here. I need you, Kal. We stick together, right? This could be it.”