Текст книги "The Ashes & the Star-Cursed King"

Автор книги: Carissa Broadbent

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7

ORAYA

I wasn’t sure when I decided what I was going to do, only that by the time I made it back to my room, it was no longer a question. I waited until long after Raihn’s footsteps had faded down the hallway. I didn’t want to take any risks, especially not when Raihn had made it so clear just how embarrassingly well he could hear what went on inside my chambers.

And then, finally, I reached into my pocket and withdrew that little clump of glass, placing it on my bed. It looked just as unremarkable in here as it had on Vincent’s desk—like stacked shards, now stained with my blood.

I still didn’t understand what this was, or how it worked. But I mimicked what I’d done in the study, sliding the still-bleeding pad of my thumb over the smooth edge.

Just as it had before, the shards immediately scattered into a pile of broken glass. I touched them again, and it reassembled into the mirrored, shallow bowl.

Now that I was watching more closely, I noticed that the pieces, when assembled, still trembled a bit—in some areas, they didn’t seem to line up quite right. I sliced my thumb on the edge again and watched my blood swirl down the decorative whorls, pooling at the bottom of the basin.

I was prepared, this time, for the wave of—of Vincent that would follow. But it wasn’t any less painful to feel it, nor any less difficult to keep myself from shutting it out. I didn’t hear the sound of his voice or see his face, but I unmistakably felt his presence, like at any moment I’d turn around and he would be standing behind me. Deeper, more visceral certainty than any single sense could conjure.

The blood at the center sputtered and widened, shivering at the edges with the trembling shards of glass. The image in the blood seemed like a reflection from another location, distant and faint. Maybe it would have been easier to see in a pool of black blood. Or perhaps it was so faint because this device—whatever it was—was never intended to work for me. I was only half vampire, after all.

I squinted into the half-formed image. I could make out the faintest suggestion of a person’s face, as if leaning over the mirror from the opposite side.

“Jesmine?” I whispered.

“Highness?”

It was unmistakably Jesmine’s voice, just like I’d thought before, albeit very distant and fuzzy. I leaned closer, straining my ears.

“It is you—” she said. “Thought—from the—where are—”

“Slow down,” I said. “I can’t hear you.”

Just as I always told you, little serpent, Vincent whispered to me. You must learn how to be more patient. Wait, and feel it.

I drew in a sharp breath.

Goddess, his voice felt so close, I could practically feel his breath on my ear. The sudden wave of grief struck me before I could steel myself against it.

Jesmine’s image solidified, her voice growing stronger, even though I still had to strain to hear her.

“—you can use it,” she was saying. I could make out her expression now—confused, intrigued. Dirt—or blood—appeared to smear one of her cheeks, her hair pulled back in a frizzy knot, a bandage wrapped around one of her arms. A stark difference from the polished seductress I was so used to seeing slink around Vincent’s parties.

“Use it?” I asked.

“His mirror. You can use it.”

His.

I didn’t need to know the details of what this thing was, exactly, to know that it was powerful, old magic—just from the way it felt, so inextricably linked to Vincent’s soul. And if this was his, and it ran on his blood…

“We don’t have time,” I muttered, mostly to myself.

No, I didn’t have time to question any of this. Not when we had work to do.

Jesmine nodded seriously, her face shifting from that of a curious subject to a general. “Are you safe, Highness?”

Safe. What a word. But I answered, “I am. And your status?”

“We are in—”

“I don’t want to know.” I was relatively certain that if we’d made it this far, no one was listening to our conversation—but I couldn’t be sure.

Understanding fell over Jesmine’s face. “Yes, Highness. Do you—how much do you know of the state of the war?”

I cleared my throat.

It was embarrassing to admit just how little I knew. Now, with this connection to Vincent burning bright and painful in my chest, it seemed even more shameful.

I had been handed incredible responsibility, and how I felt about it made no difference—so far, I’d squandered it.

Jesmine’s image flickered, and I pulled the bowl closer to me, as if to drag her back by force.

“I want your assessment, not the Rishan’s,” I said. A convenient way of brushing off my own ignorance.

“We’ve lost… many of our remaining strongholds. We’re still fighting to defend those that remain, Highness. Fighting with all we’ve got. But—” A wrinkle of hatred flitted over her nose. “The Bloodborn are numerous and vicious. The Rishan we could handle. The Bloodborn are… challenging.”

That aligned with what I’d been seeing here. Raihn could wax philosophical about his dreams all he wanted. The ugly truth was that he had invited dogs into his kingdom and let them hide behind his crown while they murdered his own people. He was heavily reliant upon their forces.

Raihn had told me, once, that dreams counted for little. What counted was action.

Well, his actions were not enough. And mine had been severely lacking, too.

Jesmine’s face blurred again, her next words fractured. “Do you—orders?”

In a desperate attempt to save my connection to her, I pressed my thumb to the edge of the bowl and let more blood flow into it, but that just made her image ripple and made the headache at the back of my skull pound ferociously.

The sound of distant footsteps made me still. I peered over my shoulder at the door to my chambers—closed. The footsteps didn’t approach, then faded to an echo at the opposite end of the hall.

I turned back to the mirror. “I don’t have much time,” I whispered.

“Do you have orders?” she asked urgently.

Orders. Like I had any authority to be telling Jesmine what she should be doing.

“They’re coming after you at Misrada in two weeks,” I said, quickly and quietly. “It will be a big move. They’re stretching themselves thin—even the Bloodborn. They’ll be leaving the Sivrinaj armory unmanned in order to get enough forces there.”

Jesmine’s brow furrowed in thought.

“I don’t know if we could defend against that kind of manpower.”

“I don’t know if you could, either. But maybe you don’t have to.”

I hesitated here—standing on the precipice of a decision I couldn’t take back. The decision to fight.

I could feel Vincent’s presence like a hand resting on my shoulder.

This is your kingdom, he whispered to me. I taught you how to fight for a significant existence. I gave you teeth. Now use them.

“Evacuate Misrada,” I said. “Go after the armory while it’s unguarded. Raid it, or capture it, or destroy it—whatever is possible with what you have. Do you have the resources?”

Even through the foggy reflection, the steel in Jesmine’s stare was clear.

“It will be tight. But we have enough to try.”

I didn’t let myself waver, didn’t let my command falter, as I said, “Then do it. Enough running. Enough defending. We don’t have time for half measures.”

It was time to fucking fight.

INTERLUDE

There is nothing more dangerous than a bargain. No greater horrors than those you choose. No worse fate than one you beg for.

The man does not understand this yet.

There was little, actually, the man understands, though he doesn’t know that yet, either. He came from a small life in a small town, and spent most of his time trying to run from it. Of his limited options, he chose the one that gave him the most freedom. He loves freedom, the feeling of the sea wind through his hair. He loves it tonight, as his ship travels through the treacherous waters near Obitraes. They call it Nyaxia’s Hook—that little curved strip of land, given its name because it so often snagged unwitting human sailors like helpless fish on a line. The night is dark. The water is rough. The sky is stormy.

The sailors do not have a chance.

Most of them are killed immediately, when the ship—too small for such a perilous journey—smashes upon the unforgiving rocks of Nyaxia’s beckoning hand. They drown in the salty seas, bodies broken over the rocks or impaled on the remains of their own ship.

But this man, despite his unremarkable upbringing, knows one thing above all:

He knows how to fight.

He is thirty-two years old. He is not ready to die. His body has been mercilessly shattered in the violent impact of the ship. Still, he swims to shore, muscles straining against the churn of the surf. He drags himself onto the beach.

When, barely conscious, he forces his head up to look at the sight ahead of him—the silhouette of a city the likes of which he had never seen before, all ivory curves and moon-cold light—he thinks he has never witnessed anything so beautiful.

The man is so close to death that night.

The gods love to take credit for fate. Is it fate that saves him? Or is it the fickle hand of luck, rolling dice that land in just the right way? If it is the gods’ hands at work, then they are laughing to themselves tonight.

He crawls as far as he can, one inch after another, the sand beneath his hands turning to rock, then soil. He can feel death following him, can feel it bubbling in his every bloody breath. The man once thought himself brave. But no mortal is brave in the face of an untimely death.

Death would have taken him if fate, or luck, had not saved him—or damned him.

The king happens across him at just the right moment.

This king was in the habit of collecting souls, and the young man’s soul is exactly the kind he enjoys. He flips over the half-conscious man, assessing his beaten but well-formed face. Then he kneels beside him and asks him a question that the man will spend the rest of an endless life replaying:

Do you want to live?

The man thinks, What a stupid question.

Of course, he wants to live. He is young. He has a family waiting for him back home. He has decades ahead of him.

No mortal is brave in the face of an untimely death.

The man’s answer is a plea:

Yes. Please. Yes. Help me.

Later, he will hate himself for this—for begging so pathetically for his own damnation.

The king smiles, and lowers his mouth to the dying man’s throat.

8

RAIHN

From the first moment I had seen Septimus, I’d hated him.

I’d known exactly who he was, and even if I didn’t know him by reputation, his appearance—which screamed Untrustworthy Bloodborn Royalty in every way—would have given it away quickly.

When he’d sidled up to me during the Kejari, I’d wanted nothing to do with him. But he was like a virus, or an unpleasant odor. The fucker just kept coming back.

It was casual enough, at first. He would linger too long wherever Mische and I happened to be, in the days immediately preceding the Kejari. In the beginning, I’d thought he was doing what most Bloodborn nobles did during the tournament: taking advantage of the fact that they were actually allowed to interact with the other Houses, and figuring out where they could exert their influence.

Easy enough to dismiss.

But then, maybe the third or fourth time he cornered me, I began to get suspicious. And I’d already decided I didn’t like him by the time he had pulled me aside and told me, I know who you are.

That was enough to spook me. I’d ripped apart my own inner circle trying to figure out how he knew—still, to this day, I didn’t know how he had found out. But that was when the pressure began.

You can’t do this by yourself. The Rishan aren’t strong enough. Doesn’t matter if you win.

You’ll need help.

Let me help you. Let us help each other.

I told him to go fuck himself. I never considered taking the deal. I’d learned a long, long time ago the danger of someone offering you everything you’ve ever wanted.

But then he noticed Oraya.

And I still remembered the exact moment I knew he understood he could use her against me: that moment at the Halfmoon ball, when he’d called her by Nessanyn’s name.

I denied him right up until the end. Right up until he was dangling Oraya’s life in front of me. And then I broke.

When you’ve lived through certain things, you know how to recognize someone who’s desperate. Septimus, I knew, was desperate—in a dangerous kind of way, the kind he was very good at keeping far away from the surface. He’d do absolutely anything to get what he wanted, and what scared me was, I still wasn’t entirely sure what that was.

Desperation made for a terrible deal.

This thought was at the forefront of my mind as I sat in my office with him and Vale, listening to Septimus tell us, oh-so-casually, about how he couldn’t send Bloodborn troops to Misrada, after all.

Vale was not happy. He wasn’t bothering to hide exactly how not happy he was.

“That’s unacceptable,” he said.

Septimus’s stupid fucking face arranged into that stupid fucking smirk.

“I understand why you feel that way,” he said, “but the nature of the matter is what it is. I can’t bend time and space, sadly. Desdemona confirmed it multiple times. We just can’t get the forces there in time. We’ll have to make the move later.”

“So let me make sure I understand.” Vale leaned across the desk. “We now have to reschedule an operation that we’ve had planned for weeks on account of your shit generals’ poor foresight? With a day’s notice?”

Septimus’s smirk faltered. I’d noticed that he was perfectly happy to accept whatever insults you wanted to lob his way, but he didn’t like it much when you disrespected those who worked under him.

He let out a puff of smoke through his nostrils. “My shit generals are doing most of the work putting down this little rebellion of yours. Maybe if your own forces were willing to fight for you, it would have been handled faster.”

Vale looked like he was close to blows. Against my better instincts, I shot him a warning glance. Vale held that stare for a moment—fought it, because even after these last weeks, he still wasn’t really ready to accept me as his superior—before shaking his head and leaning back in his chair.

“This is what I did not miss about this job,” he muttered, as if he couldn’t help himself. “Working with incompetence.”

Septimus chuckled. Then his gaze slid to me.

“You’re terribly quiet, Highness.”

I had indeed been quiet. I’d been watching Septimus, thinking about this suspiciously neat little last-minute rescheduling of his. There was more to it than he was saying. I had no doubts there, even if I didn’t know how or why.

I’d been so busy thinking that I’d neglected my role. I wanted Septimus to keep on dismissing me as the brutish, Turned king. Let him keep thinking I was someone he could take advantage of.

My returning smile was more of a baring of teeth. “What would you like me to say?”

Septimus shrugged, as if to say, You tell me.

“Do you want me to bitch at you for your poor planning and your carelessness?”

Again, he shrugged. “If you wish.”

“Why would I waste my breath? I already wasted enough of it planning this offensive with you. Maybe I don’t feel like giving you any more of my time.”

He cocked his head, staring me down a little too thoughtfully for my comfort.

I sat up straighter. “I don’t see what else there is to talk about.” I waved my hand at him dismissively. “I have actual work to do, if you’re done.”

A brief, cold smile, as Septimus rose. “Quite done.”

It was now baffling to me that the first time I’d laid eyes on Sivrinaj’s skyline, I’d thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I’d thought it looked like nothing less than salvation.

What a fucking joke.

That view had looked a lot like this one, from the roof of the armory on the outskirts of the city. It had been night then, too, the city drenched in moonlight. I supposed there was a certain architectural appeal to it, all those domes and towers and spires, marble and ivory and silver. The kind of thing you could only admire until you’d seen firsthand the blood that had been spilled to build it, and the rot that festered underneath.

“You shouldn’t be out here, Highness,” Vale said, for the fourth time in the last fifteen minutes. The words didn’t change, but his tone did, growing increasingly frustrated.

“I heard you the first time.”

He let out a grunt of wordless disapproval.

I turned around, taking in the rest of the landscape. The armory was located right where the city limits gave way to the desert—smooth rolling dunes to the north, rocky inclines down to the sea to the south. It was a foggy, overcast night, which I didn’t like. Poor visibility to the ocean. Poor visibility above.

I glanced over the rail to the city streets below. To the west were the human districts, blocky patches of tan and gray. Just beyond them, the slums of the vampire territories of the city. A few haphazard barriers, clumsy constructions of wood and stone, still remained in some of the streets. The remnants of the Hiaj’s attempts, in the days after the coup, to claw back some sections of the city. Failed attempts. But they’d put up a fight.

And I never forgot that they were still fighting.

It was a quiet night, now. But these kinds of things always happened on quiet nights.

It had been a quiet night when the Moon Palace was attacked.

It had been a quiet night before Neculai’s kingdom fell.

And it was especially quiet here now, given that Septimus had pulled away his Bloodborn forces, leaving the Rishan here to guard the armory, scattered and disorganized due to a last-minute change in orders.

Nothing was supposed to happen tonight, thanks to Septimus’s decision.

But I just thought about Septimus, and that little fucking smirk, and his very casual change of plans.

People, especially Nightborn and Shadowborn nobles, were far too quick to dismiss the Bloodborn as mindless beasts. They were bloodthirsty bastards, but they were smarter than anyone gave them credit for. If they weren’t hobbled by the curse, which cut down their numbers and their lifespans, I had no doubts they could’ve taken over Obitraes. Hell, maybe the world.

It was upper-class arrogance to underestimate them, and I didn’t have the luxury of that.

“I want more guards here,” I told Vale.

A lesser general would have told me I was being overly cautious. But Vale, to his credit, didn’t question me.

“What do you suspect?” he asked quietly.

“I…”

I don’t know.

Damn my pride, but I wasn’t about to say those words aloud, especially not to Vale.

It was the truth, though. I didn’t have a concrete theory. I didn’t think Septimus would openly turn against us—at least, not yet. He’d locked himself into this alliance, too. He’d have to work harder at getting out of it than this.

But sometimes, there’s just something in the air.

I sniffed and shot Vale a wry smirk. “You smell that?”

“What?”

“Blood.”

I leaned back against the stone wall, my hands in my pockets. “I’ll stay here tonight.”

“But—”

“Pull whoever we can spare from their posts throughout the rest of the city. Put them here.”

A pause. I could tell that he wanted to call me stupid for staying here personally, even if—especially if—I suspected something might happen.

But he just said, “As you wish, Highness.”

And without another argument, he spread his silver wings and launched into the sky with a whoosh. I lifted my chin and stared after him as he disappeared into the soupy mists.

I settled at the stone lip of the wall and unsheathed my sword. It had been a while, but there was a comforting familiarity to the way my muscles had to move to wield it. I lay the blade over my lap, taking in the dark steel, the faint red smoke rolling from the blade. I knew it by heart. Like an old friend.

I almost wanted something to go wrong tonight. Give me something to kill. I missed it. It was simple, easy, straightforward. The opposite of these last few weeks.

At least, it used to be.

The memory of Vincent’s face in his final moments flitted across my mind, unwelcome. Nothing simple about that.

I pushed that thought away, leaning back and watching the thick clouds drift across the sky. Waiting for something. Even if I didn’t know what.

Let them come.

I was looking forward to it.