The Tijervyn Chronicles
Chapter Nineteen

story by
Richard Fife

art by
April Herron

Chapter Nineteen: “Rescue”

Kira woke with a start. The sound of water dripping was the only sound in the dark of the cell, although as she sat up, it was quickly joined by the rattle of her chains. Was there someone at the door? No, she did not think so. Douglis had not visited nearly as often lately. She had lost all sense of time aside from when her gaoler fed her the same gruel, but she knew that at least. How many days at it been since she had seen her brother, or his creature, Walden?

If no one was at the door, what had woken her then? She blinked and tried as she might to see in the darkness. After a moment, she gave up and closed her eyes and tried to hear past the constant drip and the sound of her own breath and heart. Nothing. Whatever had woken her was gone.

Still, no use wasting time. She stood and stretched as much as her chains would let her. Her captors had learned early that manacles alone would not make her a passive prisoner. She had nearly killed the brute who fed her with the excess chain that let her move about. He had been faster than she expected though, and the affair ended with her eye blackened and her mobility severely lessened. The leash was gone, but now her ankles were so tightly bound that she could barely squat over the privy without falling, and her wrists were likewise chained. The gaoler had promised that if she tried anything again, he’d bind her hands-to-feet, no matter what “His Lordship” had to say, else he could find a different keeper, and likely a far harsher one. Or at least he promised.

The last of her weariness left her, and she sat down on the bed of straw and went about her task: feeling along the manacles that bound her limbs, looking for any weakness. She contemplated hiding by the door and waiting for the man to arrive, and again she ruled it out. She had at best an even chance of honestly surprising him, and less than that of successfully killing him. Even then, she knew he did not carry the key to her chains on him when he brought her food, and she still did not even know where she was, much less where the key might be beyond that thick, iron door.

The examination of her manacles ended with the same result as always. They were crudely made, and if she had even a sliver of sturdy metal, perhaps even bone, she could likely open them. But lacking that, she might as well hope to pick up Castle Sentat with her bare hands. Still, the rib from a rat might be strong enough, but her brother had seemed to have found the only gaol in Tijervyn that did not have an infestation of the creatures. She left a portion of her gruel untouched every meal to try and entice one of the rodents, but still none had deigned to visit her cell.

Had that been what woke her? Had a rat finally scurried in through some unseen hole? She reached over and picked up the bowl of gruel, then realized she had no way of really telling if it had been touched. She swore under her breath and froze. The sound of her voice, however soft, was odd in her ears, and the broken silence seemed to hang in the air, offended at her intrusion of its domain. Had it been that long since she spoke? She never said a word to the gaoler, nor to Walden. How long had it really been since Douglis visited?

Another sound caught her attention, and this time she knew what it was. Her keeper was approaching, but surely it was not time for her to be fed. She might not know whether it was day or night, or even what day it was, but she was not even close to being hungry enough for it to be one of her meals. A visitor, then.

Voices came closer, and she stilled her breathing in a vain attempt to listen. The echoes off of stone and metal distorted the whispers too much to discern, though. Not until the door was opened could she hear anything.

“There, see,” the gaoler said. “She’s still there.”

“So she is,” said a voice she did not recognize. “Get her up. I’m taking her.”

“Praedin’s bloody eyes you are,” the gaoler said.

“Lord Tidor sent me specifically to take her to a new location.”

“And His Lordship specifically told me that only he or Walden could so much as touch her,” the Gaoler said. “I let you see her ‘cause of that fancy letter, but you aren’t touching her, and that means you aren’t moving her.”

“His Lordship will be most displeased by this,” the other man said. “When I report to him—”

“I think he’ll get over it,” the gaoler said. “I ain’t risking him being upset because I let some giddy fop run off with his prisoner. If he really wanted her moved, he would have sent that old badger.”

“Walden is . . . indisposed,” the man said. “If you read the letter—”

“Can’t read,” the gaoler said with what might have been a hint of pride. “Get by just fine. I can recognize His Lordship’s mark and seal, but I’m not going to believe a hair of anything you’ll say about what is in that letter, you best believe.”

“You are making a grave error,” the man said.

“Ha,” the gaoler said. “You run back to His Lordship, and you tell him I do what I’m paid to do, and that means she stays right here until he sends Walden or comes himself. Now turn around and go the way you went. I’m done with you.”

The other man started to say something, but Kira did not hear it as the gaoler closed the door. What was that about? From the man’s tone, if he was truly on an errand from Douglis, then Walden was likely not going to be recovering from what had detained him. No, that kind of hesitation probably meant Walden was dead. She hoped it was painful and humiliating, although she was sad she had not had the chance herself.

But if the man was telling the truth, then something had happened to make them want to move her. Had Bryon and whatever was left of The Hole found her? Or at least figured out it was Douglis that had taken her? If they had, then it was a race. Douglis might be foolish enough to send an illiterate gaoler written orders, but he would not let her be found twice. He had already mentioned moving her out of Tijervyn a couple of times in his visits, but admitted to being loath to be so far away. If he overcame it, though, she would be well and beyond any hope of help from the outside, not to mention someplace unfamiliar whenever she managed to free herself.

That made her mind up. She had to escape, and soon. With luck, the gaoler would have time to feed her one last time before Douglis’s lackey delivered the message and he was able to come himself. That would be her only chance. The thought of hand-to-foot binding was not even a threat anymore, not compared to being moved.

She crawled over to the side of the door and relaxed, not enough to sleep, but enough that she did not tire herself out from being tense. She would have plenty of warning when gaoler came. Now, it was just a matter of waiting.

* * *

The escape from Tidor manor was markedly easier than Markus had been expecting. All Gavrial had to do was wave his gun around down in the basement, and the servants showed him a hidden escape tunnel that lead to a park several streets away.

The inside of the tunnel had been quiet as the grave, and neither of the men cared to break it. Once they were free, they walked through busy streets back to the Aviary to report back to the rest of the gang. Despite the clamor of the street, Markus did not speak, and Gavrial did not attempt to make him.

Neither of the men found words until Bryon and the others made it back to the hideout, some short time after them. Markus was in the kitchen, boiling water, and Gavrial had just finished hiding enough firepower about his person to arm a platoon. The bell rang, and both looked up as Bryon emerged from the stairs, hair a mess and his face red from exertion.

He struggled to catch his breath. “Well?”

“Gaoler in the Warrens,” Gavrial said. “A butcher called Julard in the southeast corner.”

Bryon sighed in relief. “Was there any trouble?”

“None that I couldn’t handle,” Gavrial said.

“In cold blood,” Markus said. “He killed Tidor’s manservant.”

“I didn’t want them figuring out what we were after,” Gavrial said. “Dead bastards are silent bastards.”

“They’ll figure it out soon enough,” Markus said. “Tidor might even be paranoid enough to simply assume, especially with this Walden fellow dead.”

The others had climbed up the stairs, and Vlad rubbed his beard. “Then we have no time to waste. Does anyone know for sure where this butcher is?”

“It’s a permanent building,” Markus said. “It shouldn’t be that hard to find.”

Margot laughed. “I thought you were from Tijervyn, brassman.”

“I am.” Markus blushed. “Although, I never really had a chance to go to the Warrens before I enlisted and left. But from what I gather, there aren’t that many permanent buildings in them.”

“There are still enough,” Margot said. “And placed with no rhyme or reason. He might as well have told us the shop with a red door in the Scent District. Sure, there aren’t that many, but who knows where they all are?”

Markus chewed his lip, and Bryon nodded. “Finding Julard’s will be our first goal then, and quickly.”

“Julard’s?” Nikki came walking into the room from her office. “What do you want with that piss-hole?”

“That’s where they have Kira,” Gavrial said.

Nikki’s expression darkened. “You sure?”

“Sure enough,” Markus said. “Why?”

“Julard’s is about as bad a gaol as there is,” she said. “I’ve had to deal with him a handful of times, and I can’t say anyone who went there was ever really the same again. Seems odd, a noble putting his own sister in there, even if he wanted to rough her up a bit. Their idea of torture is going a few days without coffee, after all.”

“You’d be surprised what kind of torture nobles can think up,” Markus said.

He looked up when the room was silent and realized everyone was looking at him. The thermometer on the boiling chamber chirped, and he went about tending to it, avoiding their eyes, and eventually Byron spoke.

“It doesn’t strike me odd if Douglis was actually hiding her from his father. Regardless, it saves us time if you know where this place is.”

“I suppose I could do that much, at least,” Nikki said. “I assume you want to go now?”

“The sooner the better,” Gavrial said. “Markus made a good point that the Tidor boy might try and move her.”

“I’ll send Kass to show you.” Nikki leveled a glare on Bryon. “She’ll show you where it is, only. I don’t care what she asks, she isn’t part of your plan, understand?”

“Don’t worry,” Vlad said. “She’ll be as safe as a babe at her mother’s breast.”

Nikki turned to Vlad. “Coming from you, that somehow doesn’t assure me. But fine, I’ll go let her know. Make your plan to save your sweet little urchin while I tell mine what I’ve volunteered her for.”

* * *

Margot walked into the butcher’s shop and looked around. It was obvious that the store was hardly just a front for the gaol. Various sides of meat were on display in cases, and a tall, lean man was working on a carcass behind the main counter. He used his knife with the precision and ease of long years of practice, and Margot had a feeling he would be equally quick if he had to turn it on a person. One did not survive in the Warrens without the ability to defend one’s shop.

The man turned around from his work and wiped the bloody knife across his apron. “Afternoon, miss. What will it be?”

Margot smiled, showing just a bit of teeth. She had worked on that smile for years, had designed it to unnerve and disarm someone at the same time, especially if she was about ruin their day. That smile had gotten a lot of use.

“I was hoping for directions. I was looking for Julard’s.”

“You found it,” the man said.

Margot glanced back towards the door. “Oh, there wasn’t a sign.”

“Most of them who come to this part of the Warrens can’t read,” the man said. “But any who needs to find me can, I reckon. You did, after all.”

“So I did, Mister . . . ?”

“Scot,” the man said.

“Scot?” she frowned slightly. “Then you aren’t Julard?”

“Praedin below knows who Julard is,” Scot said. “The place had the name when I bought it, and it wasn’t from no Julard, and he didn’t know either. I figured, if the place has had that name this long, no reason to change it.”

“A wise move, I’m sure,” Margot said.

The man beamed a bit. “I like to think so. Now, what will it be?”

“I was hoping to find some beef tongues, preferably aged.”

Scot narrowed his eyes. “I’m not quite sure if I have any of those.”

“Perhaps we can check the back?”

Scot sucked on his teeth for a moment and crossed his arms, knife still in hand. “You don’t strike me as one who’d be interested in that.”

“It takes all types,” she said.

“I don’t have anything for you,” he said. “No room, and nothing I’d part with.”

She glanced out through the large display window then turned back, this time with a far more wicked smile. “No, I think you do have something we are rather interested in. A girl, a little taller than me, blond hair?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” His hand tightened on the knife, and his eyes widened, if only slightly.

Margot sighed, looked back outside, and nodded. She then turned back to Scot. “Wrong answer.”

Margot made no motion, but the butcher’s eyes stayed locked on her. Gavrial was halfway through the door, a long rifle firmly couched to his shoulder and aimed at the man’s chest, before Scot’s eyes flicked over to him. At that moment, Scot froze, although a bead of sweat did roll down his forehead.

“Let me ask the question again,” she said. “Do you know where there might be a girl, a little taller than me, with blond hair?”

Scot licked his lips, and his eyes grew wider as Markus and Bryon walked through the door, both with firearms in hand. His eyes kept moving back to Gavrial, though.

“I . . . well, that is . . . .”

“We know you run a gaol, and that you have her,” Gavrial said. “So open it up before I open you up.”

Scot looked around one final time before he slumped his shoulders and very carefully put his knife down on the cutting board. “This way.”

He moved toward the back of the shop, and Markus and Gavrial followed. Bryon lingered behind and walked over to Margot. “Fall back with Vlad and Gust, keep an eye out. I doubt there is much you could do to warn us if trouble shows up, but do what you can to slow it down. We will just go ahead and expect the trip back up to be as potentially unfriendly as the one going down.”

“I’ll make sure it doesn’t get hot on the way back up,” she said.

“Don’t risk yourself too much,” Bryon said. “If the Tidors bring a small army, we’ll do better with Gavrial and his arsenal in an enclosed space than you will in the open. Just slow them down a bit, alright?”

She huffed and crossed her arms under her breasts. “Fine, I’ll leave a few for you.”

Bryon nodded and disappeared into the back of the shop, and Margot went back out into the street and spotted Vlad and Gust leaning against a nearby shack, each facing a different direction. She joined them, leaning against the shack to look down a third path, and sighed. Around them, wooden hovels in various states of disrepair leaned haphazardly against each other, and no few were either half torn down or only half built. As far as she could see, only the butcher’s shop was made of stone, a rare, permanent building in the ever changing Warrens.

“You know, I got on Markus’s case once for not liking lookout duty, but I have to admit, it does get kind of dull.”

Gust grunted, and Vlad laughed.

“Ah, you are the point-girl on one mission, and already the grass is greener, is it?” Vlad said.

“I never said that,” Margot said. “Not like I want to be down in the gaol, not knowing if someone is about to pop out and start shooting at me. But a few more of these safer bits, deception and manipulation like, would be nice.”

“Well, if we can ever be bothered to do something like Tresling Gardens again, maybe you can.”

She looked at him sideways. “I don’t hate being a lookout bad enough to wear a dress.”

Vlad shrugged. “Eh, as you will.”

She let the conversation end with that and went to watching the street and the people in it. As they walked past, she made up small stories for each of them. That pair over there were secret lovers. That one over there was about to lose it and kill his boss. And that particularly sad looking woman had just lost a son in the army, even though the war was done. Not that long had passed, barely a dozen entertaining stories, when she spotted trouble coming down the street towards them.

“We have company,” she said.

The two men looked. Down the street, that brat, Douglis, was walking towards them as though he owned the whole of the Warrens. Four men flanked him, all in suit coats and nice shoes, and undoubtedly with revolvers concealed in pockets.

“So few?” Vlad said. “What should we do?”

“Bryon said to slow them down,” she said. “I think we can make them so slow they seem to be running the way they came. What do you think?”

“It seems risky.” Vlad stroked his beard. “There might be more trailing behind, waiting for a possible trap.”

“The boy’s a careless twit,” she said. “That old weasel Gavrial shot was the cautious one. We’ll be—”

Gust elbowed her, and a moment later she felt more than heard a soft explosion. She looked back from Vlad to the approaching men. None of them seemed hurt, but they had stopped, and the well-dressed thugs had circled around the boy. They were looking around, up at the roofs of shacks, and the once-hidden guns were now drawn.

“Who’s there?” the boy called out. “Show yourself, or we will be forced to shoot.”

On a roof to the right, a man in a mask and long, black coat stood. He tilted his head to the side, then looked down the street. For a moment, Margot thought his gaze was on her, but the tinted glass of the mask moved a bit too far. No, he was looking at the butcher’s shop. The man then looked back to the group of men and drew a shockrod.

“Shoot!” the boy said. “Kill him!”

The men trained their guns and opened fire, and flashes of blue filled the afternoon sky, and the sound of bullets hitting wood and cobblestones came from several directions.

The men, fools to think more bullets might make a difference, continued to shoot at the man as he hopped off the roof and strolled towards them, thumbing a switch on the shockrod as he walked. One man screamed and went down as one of the bullets, perhaps his own, deflected back into him, and then the gunfire stopped. Not because the men had grown wise, no. Because, with still several yards distance between them, the strange man struck out.

The shockrod flicked about, brushing another thug, and an impact filled the air as the man went tumbling back into a stack of crates. In the same motion, the man brought the shockrod back for another strike and switched out a small cylinder from the handle. He then lunged again, and another thug fell. Barely three heartbeats had passed between the two strikes.

The final thug turned and ran, and the masked man reached into his coat and threw something at him that looked like a small ball covered in nubs. When it hit the man, there was another impact, and the man fell to the street.

The boy reached into his coat, and the masked man turned to him and shook a finger. He then switched out the cylinder in the shockrod again and took a step towards the boy.

“What do you want?” Douglis said.

The man pointed down the street.

“The butcher?”

The man shook his head.

Douglis swallowed hard. “The gaoler?”

The man nodded.

“You’re after my sister?” Douglis said. “You killed Walden?”

The man shook his head.

“Then what do you want?”

The man tapped the back of his neck, just where the skull ended. Douglis furrowed his brow, obviously not understanding, but Margot understood just fine. That man wanted Markus, and somehow he knew Markus would be coming after Kira.

She reached into her coat and felt the small derringer, but she did not know what good it would do. The man had not even attempted to dodge the bullets, and the thugs had been using far more powerful guns than her little two-round palm gun. Still, she had to do something. She took a step forward, and a hand caught her shoulder. She turned, and Gust was shaking his head.

“He’s right,” Vlad said. “We can’t slow that down. The others will just have to do their best.”

Margot frowned. “I’m not going to just stand by and watch as certain death goes down after our friends.”

“Nothing is certain,” Vlad said. “But we will most certainly wish we were dead if we try to mess with a man who can ignore bullets and fights with lightning.”

Vlad grew quiet at the end, and Margot looked back. The boy was on his feet and walking towards them, and the man trailed behind him a few paces. They passed right by Margot. The boy did not even glance her way, but the man looked at her, and she could almost feel him smiling under the mask. He raised a single finger to where his lips would be, then turned his attention back to the boy.

Once they were inside, Vlad put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off and leaned back against the shack. She did not look down the street, where the bodies of three men lay motionless, and the fourth, the one who had been shot, barely writhed. No, she kept her eyes on the butcher’s. If that man reappeared first, it would not be for long. She did not know how, but she would see to it, somehow.

* * *

The tunnels beneath the butcher’s shop were more expansive than Markus would have expected. Where he had thought that at most there would be something near the size of The Hole under the building, there instead was a vast network of passages and chambers that would have but some outlying baronies’ dungeons to shame.

“You must be a busy man,” Markus said.

“I don’t use but a few cells at a time,” Scot said.

“And they have to be this far away?” Gavrial said.

Scot licked his lips. “I keep the prisoners far away and separate. That way they can’t help each other, and it’d be harder for someone to break in and mount a rescue, see?”

“Good thing we just waltzed in then,” Bryon said. “How far?”

“Not much further.” Scot wrung his hands.

“Feels like we’ve been going in circles,” Markus said. “Hard to say, with how this place twists about on itself, but I’d swear there would have been a faster way.”

“Hold up.” Gavrial slung his rifle over his shoulder and flung his coat open. “Markus, bring that light over here a little closer.”

Markus did, and as he moved, the glint of steel, iron, brass, and polished wood seemed to sparkle around Gavrial like a nimbus. Scot’s eyes widened at the sight of all the weapons, but then Gavrial pulled out a long, heavy knife from a sheath against his thigh.

“Here’s what I wanted,” the large man said. “Tell you what, Scot. For every minute it takes us to reach Kira, I’m going to cut one of your fingers off. If I run out of fingers, I’ll move onto your ears, then your nose, then your tongue. I’ll get creative after that. But don’t worry, I’ll be a good sport about this. I’ll let you keep them. Perhaps you can grind them up and sell them, eh?”

Markus bit back what he wanted to say. He could tell this was not one of Gavrial’s bluffs, like his threat to toss that girl to the dockworkers as a whore. No, he truly meant to carry through with this threat, probably down to letting the man keep his severed bits. The sad thing was, for as gruesome as it was, Markus had to admit it was probably their only hope of finding Kira quickly. Scot was stalling, and if he was brave enough to do that with Gavrial’s rifle pointed at the back of his head, it would take stronger measures.

“I . . . I see,” Scot said. “We’re almost there, don’t worry. Come along.”

“I’m not the one worrying,” Gavrial said. “I’m the one counting.”

Scot moved faster, and took less turns, and before Markus could finish the first minute in his head, they stopped in front of a heavy, iron door. The butcher pulled out a set of keys on a large ring and shuffled through them, glancing up at Gavrial to see if he would count this towards the minute.

“It’s here somewhere,” Scot said. “Please, this is the cell. Please don’t—”

A small ball flew from the shadows and hit Scot on the face, and he jerked and made a sound that might have been a halted attempted at screaming before he fell to the ground. Markus spun around, and took a step back as Douglis and the masked man stepped into the light.

“Who in Troena’s name are you?” Douglis said.

“Kira’s real family.” Bryon took a step back and leveled his gun at Douglis. “We’re taking her back.”

“Careful Bryon. That freak in the mask is the man with the shockshield.”

Bryon turned his gun towards the masked man, then back towards Douglis. “He’s been your creature, then? Why?”

The masked man took a step forward and shook his head. As he did, he reached over, as if to touch Douglis, but just before his hand touched the boy’s shoulder, blue light filled the room along with Douglis’s startled scream. A moment later, Markus was blinking his sight back, and it sounded as though Douglis was writhing on the floor, groaning.

“Praedin be damned,” Bryon said. “Who are you?”

“What’s it matter who he is.” Markus almost had his vision back, and he could see that the man had drawn his shockrod. “He’s after me. That’s it, isn’t it, you bastard? You think you have what it takes to understand a revenant, the work of a man a thousand times your better?”

The man’s fist tightened on the shockrod, and he lunged. Markus dodged back, although he felt the hair on his head stand on end as the shockrod whizzed just past his temple. He took another step back, and the masked man swung again, this time aiming for Markus’s chest.

Gavrial seemed to appear out of nowhere, a wooden club in hand and a snarl on his lips. Before Markus or the masked man could react, Gavrial brought the club down hard on the man’s wrist. The man grunted, and the shockrod fell from his grasp. Before he could move to pick it up, he had to dance back away from another swing of Gavrial’s club.

“First you kill Jak.” Gavrial swung again, driving the man even further back into the hall. “Then you try and ruin the thieves’ race. Now you are here. I’m just about sick and tired of you, you bone-sucking son of a goat!”

The man reached into his coat, and Markus rushed forward, pushing Gavrial out of the way as another one of those balls that took the butcher down flew from the man’s hand. But, while he did push Gavrial out of the way, he only put himself right in its path. He raised a hand to knock it away, and some part of him told him that would be useless.

He felt the odd bumps on the ball as it touched the palm of his right hand, and then blinding pain ran through his arm, down the side of his body, and through his legs. He was sure he screamed, although he could not hear it, and his chest seemed to tighten. Then, the pain was gone, and he was on his knees, panting.

Gavrial was at his side. “You okay, Markus?”

“I . . . yeah,” he said. “Oddly, I don’t feel that bad, just a little weak. Where’s—?”

“Ran.” Bryon walked over, holding the shockrod in one hand. “All that gadgetry, just to be laid low by a wooden club.”

“Bah, I didn’t even break his wrist,” Gavrial said. “It was a glancing blow at best, and I think he had some kind of armor on underneath, besides. He probably dropped it more out of shock than anything.”

“Still,” Bryon said. “It is a victory for us.”

“No,” Gavrial said. “A victory is going to be if Kira is actually in that cell. Come on.”

Gavrial picked up the key ring from the gaoler’s still body, and while he fiddled with the lock, Markus checked the man for a pulse that was not there. Next to the body was the ball that had hit him, and Markus looked at it as best he could without touching it. Before he could study it too much, Gavrial grunted and pushed the door open.

He walked inside before Markus could catch up to him with the lamp and screamed in surprise as a figure in dirty, torn clothes jumped out of the shadows. The figure tried to wrap the chain of its manacles around Gavrial’s neck, but he spun and caught the prisoner’s wrist first. He started to bring a fist up, then stopped and laughed. The prisoner stopped struggling, too, and then the two were hugging.

Markus moved closer, and the figure seemed to dissolve into Kira. She pulled back from Gavrial and looked over at Markus, and her face kept changing from disbelief to happiness and back.

“I . . . I thought for sure you were Douglis’s men,” she said.

Bryon walked in hauling the still groaning Douglis. “Speaking of your captor.”

As Douglis fell out of Bryon’s grasp, Gavrial caught then flung him hard against a wall, ripping the man’s coat and shirt. Gavrial put his fists to Douglis’s midriff before the man could even fall, and did not stop until Markus pulled him off. Gavrial let himself be led back a few steps, but it would seem that was only so he could draw the small hand cannon he had used to kill Walden.

“Gavrial, no!” Kira’s voice was soft, but it still seemed to fill the room.

Gavrial glanced back at her. “He kidnapped you, kept you here, and burned down The Hole.”

“Leave him be,” she said.

Gavrial lowered his gun and rounded on her. “What?”

“Leave him be,” she said. “He didn’t burn The Hole down, that was some military officer. I know that much, at least. As for the rest, it was me he hurt, so I decide what happens to him. Leave him be.”

Gavrial turned back to Douglis, and for a moment, Markus was sure the man would shoot anyway, but he only holstered his gun. “Markus, get those chains off her, will you?”

Markus pulled his glove off and barely had to try to open the manacles, and Kira thanked him as she rubbed feeling into her wrists. She then walked over to Douglis and knelt next to him.

“I saved your life in more ways that you could possibly know when you were little,” she said. “I’m saving it again, and now I’m leaving for good. Don’t attempt to find me again, because if I see you again, I will kill you myself.”

Douglis glowered at her, and she stood and started to walk out. After a few steps, though, she stumbled, and Gavrial caught her. She steadied herself on his arm, but even after her feet were back under her, she did not let go.

She looked at Bryon, Markus, and then Gavrial in turn. “Let’s go home.”