Page 124 of City of Stone and Silence

Here, at least, I can accomplish something. Opening my Kindre senses is a shock, but one I’m prepared for—fear and pain slide over me, a wave of foul-smelling scratches against my skin, but I let them pass and focus. I find the minds of the marines, their training and discipline making them easy to pick out from the wilder rebels. They’re confident, and I take that away from them, replacing an easy assurance of superiority with a spreading fear.

For a few moments, discipline holds. Then they break, one man throwing away his sword and sprinting back to the boats, the others following in an unstoppable tide. They’re scrambling onto the waiting galleys, heedless of the shouts of the officers on deck. Grego’s men go after them, wild with their unexpected victory, stabbing and hacking down their opponents before they can escape.

Hotara turns to one of her assistants. “Go and tell Grego to get back here as fast as he can. They’ll start shooting once their own people are clear.”

The boy nods and runs off, and Hotara glances at me with a dour smile.

“If that’s the best they can do, we may—”

Fire blooms on the wall, directly above the gate. As it fades into a plume of dark smoke, I can see figures in black dropping down onto the battlements, shimmering with multi-colored light.

The Immortals have arrived.

You can’t fly with Tartak. Everyone knows that, though I don’t pretend to understand why. You can slow a fall—if you’re quick enough—but you can’t lift yourself.

You can, however, lift someone else. The Immortals landing on the wall must have been hurled high into the air by comrades outside, their descent slowed at the last moment by spreading waves of pale blue force. They alight with well-practiced grace, as though stepping down from a carriage, tearing into the surprised defenders with swords and blasts of flame. Crossbow bolts from farther along the wall rain down on them, but more waves of force stop the missiles dead in the air.

I reach for them, desperately, ready to crush their minds as thoroughly as I destroyed their captain in the safe house basement. But, as at the sanctuary, my mental grip slides away, deflected by an invisible bubble. They have their own Kindre users, strong enough to protect themselves from my fumbling efforts.

Which means we are all absolutely rotted. Because the red sashes are no match for these practiced executioners, and they die in droves, bodies piling up at the black-armored soldiers’ feet or pinwheeling off the wall in sprays of blood. A man glowing golden with Rhema speed carves a crimson path through men and women who don’t even have time to raise their weapons, moving on to his next victim before the first has even fallen. Myrkai fire streams along the battlements like a living thing, reaching outward to claim fresh victims.

At the center of the slaughter, directly over the gate, three dark shapes in chain veils stand motionless for a moment. Then, as I watch, one of the trio raises an arm to point directly at me. At the same time, I feel Kindre power, tendrils of it reaching out to me. I bat them away, terrified. One of the trio speaks to the others, and then all three jump from the wall into the open space, blue energy glowing around them to slow their fall.

Grego’s squad, fresh off their victory, is retreating toward us on Hotara’s orders. A few of their stragglers spot the Immortals and halt, uncertain about these new opponents. The leader of the three—a woman, I can see now, blank-faced and anonymous in her armor—steps forward, and bright green blades ignite on each of her arms with a snap-hiss audible even at this distance.

And all of a sudden, I’m back in my dreams. Isoka stares at me, her blades ignited.

Murderer. Whore. Monster, she says. Monster, monster, monster.

Jakibsa, until now a silent presence at my shoulder, steps forward. “We have to stop them. Giniva—”

“No.” My throat feels thick. “We run.”

Everyone looks at me, even as the fighters below are screaming and dying.

“The battle…” Hotara begins.

“The battle is over,” I say. “We lost. We knew we probably would. Everyone who can, get back to the Eleventh Ward gate.”

She stares at me for a moment, then nods decisively. “Signal the retreat!”

Everyone on the rooftop is suddenly moving at once, a mad stampede for the ladders at the back of the building. The girl with the signal flags stays in place, though, raising them over her head in a frantic motion intended for the soldiers on the walls. It makes her an instant target, and a moment later the flags fall from her fingers and she’s slumping forward, riddled by a half-dozen crossbow bolts.

I glance at Jakibsa, and he offers his ruined hands to me and Giniva. We step off the roof, his power gathering around us to slow our fall, bypassing the pileup at the ladders. At the base of the building, an alley leads back into the tangled warren of the Sixteenth Ward’s streets. It’s crowded by Grego and his men, taking shelter from enemy fire and blocking the way until Hotara and the others descend.

“There!” The shout comes from the alley entrance. “That’s her!”

My blood goes cold, and my heart pounds in my chest. I’d hoped they were pointing out the rebel commanders, but—

They felt me use my power. They were waiting for it. Naga wants me in a cage. The Immortal captain’s limp features twist in my memory. “Insurance. Hostage.”

The black-armored woman stalks forward, blades humming. It’s not Isoka, it can’t be her, that makes no sense, but I still feel like my nightmare has escaped into the real world. Whoever this woman is—it can’t be—she’s a Melos adept, and Grego’s men fare no better against her than alley thugs ever did against my sister. Her blades rise and fall, carving a path of bloody ruin with casual efficiency, ignoring the terrified return blows. Swords and spears stop an inch from her body, rebounding from crackling, sparking energy. Blue bands of power emanate from one of her companions, following carefully in her wake, batting aside any attempt to surround her. The third Immortal stays close, not visibly assisting, but when I reach out with my mind that same bubble keeps me away.

Melos, Tartak, and Kindre. Three soldiers, split off from the assault on the wall to find a specific target. Me.

I feel my own fear welling up, black bile at the back of my throat, and I try to force it down. Hotara has reached the bottom of the ladder, and she stands open-mouthed, watching Grego’s men go down against the Melos adept. I have to shout in her ear to get her attention.

“Run!”