Page 68 of The Darkening (The Darkening)

Chapter 15

From the second-story walkway, I watch as Izamal leads a team of Wardana trainees through a drill in the Ven’s courtyard. Dalca is with him, and they demonstrate how Izamal guards Dalca’s back as Dalca strikes at the wooden stormbeast. I duck back into the shadows, watching from where I won’t be seen. I’d rather keep a little space between me and Dalca—there’s no reason to risk it, now that I know where Pa is.

I found Izamal once Dalca and I had reached solid ground and parted ways. Iz heard me out about the garden and the ikon, and a plan fell into place. I wanted to go at once, but Izamal convinced me to wait a day, until he found a time when Dalca and Casvian would be otherwise occupied. We parted with the promise:tomorrow.

But I’m restless. Looking down at the Wardana sparring, I half wish I could fight with them. It’d siphon off some of the nervousness that buzzes up and down my legs. On the surface of the stone railing, I trace the ikon Iz showed me, careful to keep it incomplete. It’ll undo the restraints that Iz reckons Pa is under—the ones I saw, that covered Pa’s hands in what looked like gloves of molten silver.

A shout comes from below.

Dalca and Izamal stand as a team, taking on the trainees all at once.

Dalca’s hair curls with sweat, but his moves are as precise as ever as he attacks with a blunted spear. Izamal draws my eye; he moves with liquid grace, wild and unpredictable, a style that’s unteachable, original—one that couldn’t be more different from Dalca’s practice-honed movements. None of the trainees’ attacks get through Izamal’s defense.

They switch roles seamlessly, and Dalca becomes defender. He seems to double in size, the light glinting off his eyes in a way that’s intimidating even from where I stand. Dalca was flawless as attacker, but it’s as protector that he comes into his own. He matches every trainee blow for blow. They begin to hesitate, their attacks becoming slower and slower.

Theirs is a strange relationship. It’s plain that they trust each other with their lives in combat. But how does Izamal reconcile that with going behind Dalca’s back and supplying weapons to the fifth? How can Dalca respect Izamal and not do more for fifth-ringers?

The training session ends, and the Wardana disperse. Izamal murmurs something to Dalca, and he laughs with his head thrown back. I step into the light as Dalca leaves, disappearing into a far hallway.

I glance down, and Izamal’s already looking up at me.

“One minute,” he mouths.

He disappears down a hall. I count out the seconds. Five minutes pass before he shows up at my elbow, tucking something into his jacket. “Let’s go up on the roof,” he says.

A haughty white cat slinks after him; I follow them both up a steep set of stairs that goes to the Ven’s roof.

We settle down at a corner with a view; to one side is the courtyard, to the other is an uninterrupted vista of the lower rings and the Storm. The Ven empties as the sky darkens and street ikonlights flicker to life.

“Are you afraid?”

I turn to Iz. “No,” I lie.

His lips quirk. “So confident.”

I can’t match his smile, but I don’t want him to see what I feel. “What’s fear going to do for me now?”

His smile falls. “Brave girl.”

“Don’t be condescending.”

“I’m not, I promise. Look, I brought you something.” Izamal pulls a package from his jacket, wax paper wrapped with a length of string.

I tug the string loose, and the paper falls open to a waft of warm sugar and spices. The white cat springs out of the dark to steal the string, but my full attention is on what’s inside. Delicate little pastries, some in the shape of birds, some simple rounds glazed with icing.

I’ve seen them in third- and second-ring shops in passing, but I’d never thought to stop and try them. Figured they weren’t meant for me.

“I saw you looking,” Iz says.

We sit on the roof, side by side, with the pastries between us. I bite the head off a bird and sweetness melts in my mouth. Izamal holds a round one out to me.

“Break it with me?”

I hold one edge and Izamal snaps the pastry so that it cracks open. The pale-pink filling rises up in a slow spiral, forming the ridges of petals as it swirls. When the ikon is exhausted, the filling has formed a rose stretched between two halves. A little laugh bubbles out of me. Izamal pulls his half toward him, and I cup a hand under the rose, catching it as it falls.

He shoves his half into his mouth all at once, but I take my time, taking the smallest bites I can manage. I save the rose for last; it melts on my tongue, and it’s achingly sweet, tasting a little like the way Dalca’s garden smells.

I like it here, in the dark, sharing sweets with Izamal. He and I are in this together, at least till we get Pa. It feels good to be able to trust him right now, to let him distract me.