Текст книги "The wolf and the crown of blood"

Автор книги: Elizabeth May

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

And now I’m no longer required?

“I don’t understand,” Theodora says. “Has my sister offended him?”

The Oracle’s head turns toward my sister. “The Eternal’s will isn’t for mortals to question.”

It takes every scrap of courtly training I possess not to lunge across the altar and throttle the Oracle with her veil.

“Two weeks ago, I was indispensable. Now I’m nothing,” I say, my voice calm despite my pounding heart. “Did Alexios share his reasons, or does he prefer to keep us guessing?”

The third Oracle answers. “You live and die by the Eternal’s mercy, and he’s revoked it. There’s nothing more to be said.”

Mercy. How precious.

“Unrevoke it,” Theodora says sharply. “My sister is ready to make the tithe and do her duty.” She rakes them with the glare that earned her the frigid bitch moniker. “It’s your obligation to take her blood.”

“You’re not regent anymore, Princess,” the Head Oracle says. “You have no authority here.”

Theodora flinches, and I see the barb hit home. She swallows hard at the reminder of everything she’s lost.

“Ah, yes,” I say. “I’d forgotten that obedience is a requirement of Alexios’ faithful. Tell me, do you gain your position only by being the bastard children of demigods and humans, or is there a test you have to pass for sycophantic devotion? Does he screen for a lack of individuality? I’m curious how that works.”

The Oracles gasp. I think one of them might be choking on her own spit behind that veil.

“Bry,” Theodora says. “Come on. We’re going.”

I’m reaching for Theo’s arm when the third Oracle says, “If you doubt our words, Princess, look at your Claim.”

I turn back. “What did you just say?”

The Oracle points at my wrist—at the golden cuff that’s been there for as long as I can remember. “See for yourself.”

I fumble with the clasp, my breaths growing shorter. This has to be a mistake. Some sort of sick, ritualized humiliation.

The cuff falls away, and branded on my inner wrist is a slash through the eye of Alexios’ mark. The same sigil that’s declared me his Claimed since the day I was born and given the drop of his blood like every other infant in Luceni. Only now, the eye is closed.

And I’m marked for death.

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3

BRYONY

ATINY MARK. That’s all it takes to destroy a life.

All these years, I’ve bled for the Shroud—died hundreds of deaths for it. Laid myself on that altar, over and over, and felt my heart stop long before I even understood the meaning of sacrifice.

Memories flicker of a little girl, confused and terrified, tears streaming down her cheeks as she pleads with them to stop. Begs them not to hurt her again. But the ceremonial blade splits her skin, the world goes dark at the edges, and the Void rises to claim her. No one listens. No one cares.

The gods don’t answer prayers. Monsters seldom do.

“I’ve never missed a tithe,” I say faintly, staring down at that damning symbol. “Not once.”

The Head Oracle regards me in silence. “For months, the people in this city have been tossing roses at your feet instead of spilling their blood for the Eternal. He’s given them more grace than most. These are the consequences.”

My face heats. I never asked for their worship. I only ever did what Theodora needed me to do—put on a united front when our uncle abandoned the throne. Offered the public some small reassurance that House Devaliant wasn’t crumbling.

But I watched their tentative questions turn to admiration and then twist into something far more dangerous: reverence. Every offering and prayer whispered in my name gave the Eternal more reasons to despise me. I should have recognized the warning signs when the crowds swelled outside the palace walls.

The child today begged for my blessing.

“You can’t be serious,” Theodora says, eyes blazing. “They love her because she dies for them. Because she’s the one out there showing them we give a damn. Maybe if Alexios dragged his ass across the Shroud to reassure his Claimed instead of sending his rabid dogs to slaughter the masses, people wouldn’t be so damned eager to break their oaths.”

Scandalized gasps rise from the cluster of Oracles.

“Watch that mouth, girl,” the Head Oracle hisses. “Or the Eternal might decide your tongue would look better decorating his wall.”

Theo steps forward. “Then he can come down here and cut it out himself.”

I have to fix this. He can’t just mark me for execution after a life of service. “Let me make the offering now. There’s still time—”

“No.” The Head Oracle cuts me off. “The Eternal’s judgment is final. It won’t be overturned by an arrogant girl who doesn’t know her place.”

And there it is. I’m nothing. Worse than an Unclaimed. Someone to be shunned, hunted down, and butchered in the streets. Because since when have the gods been fair to those they subjugate? Those they own? I’m only a tool that’s outlived its use.

My hands shake as I slide my cuff on my wrist and cover up the mark. I turn and stride out of the temple, Theodora and Silas falling into step behind me. My guard shoots a furtive glance my way. I wonder what he’s thinking, knowing the princess he’s sworn to protect is a pariah.

It doesn’t matter, I suppose. When the Enforcers come, his opinion will be less than worthless.

The courtyard sunlight is too bright. I pause before the largest statue of Alexios, studying the perfect features of the god who sentenced me to death. He towers over us in obsidian and marble, with red gems glinting in the carved folds of his raiment, meant to depict droplets of blood.

“Bry.” Theodora’s voice is soft. “What are you doing?”

“Just having a moment with my executioner.” I blink back the sting of tears. “Seems only polite.”

My gaze catches on the fresco painted across the back wall of the courtyard. It illustrates Alexios’ six Enforcers soaring above the smoke and rubble of a broken city, their swords bared and their wings spread wide. Savage and terrifying. Beautiful and cruel.

And him.

The Wolf is front and center. His gilded armor is splashed with gore, his irises blazing like molten gold. I remember the weight of his stare. The suffocating pressure of his power, old and unfathomably vast.

Never give me a reason to come for you.

Well. Here we are. I guess he’ll be collecting soon.

I should give him no cause. Let him look me in the face and know this isn’t my fault.

“Silas.” I extend my palm without looking away from the painting. “Let me borrow your knife.”

A beat. “Princess?”

“That pretty blade you love so much. Hand it over.”

I can see him wondering if his charge has finally cracked. If I’ve given in to the madness that runs in Devaliant blood like a bomb waiting for the right moment to detonate.

It’s not an unreasonable fear. My family isn’t exactly known for our sterling mental health after dying and coming back so often. We hide it well by staging the deaths and changing the stories, but suicide has become something of a family tradition.

“I’m not going to off myself,” I mutter, my lips twisting. “Not permanently, anyway.”

Another moment of hesitation. Then he draws the weapon from his belt and places it in my palm. Such a paltry thing to wager against a god’s wrath, but it’ll have to do.

“Tell me you’re not about to do what I think you are,” Theo hisses. “Tell me you aren’t about to defy the Eternal’s direct orders at his own temple.”

“I’m just performing a Devaliant’s duty,” I say with a shrug. “One last tithe for old times’ sake.”

“This isn’t the altar, you reckless idiot. They can’t resurrect you if you bleed out here!”

“Alexios’ power flows through every inch of this sanctum. So either he accepts this offering and gives me back my Claim, or he sends his dogs to finish me off. I’ll give him something to chew on while he mulls it over.”

The Eternal bound our lineage to the Shroud, with the blood of citizens across Vartena as a sympathetic link. But he never said where on the temple grounds we had to bleed. Let’s see how he likes that little loophole.

Theo’s mouth tightens, and she jerks her chin. “Fine. Lie down.”

I move to the base of the steps and settle on my back on the warm flagstones. It’s now or never.

“Your Highness,” Silas says, “I don’t think you should—”

“Quiet,” Theodora tells him, her voice brooking no argument. “Go get the Oracles.”

Silas curses under his breath, but he spins on his heel, hurrying toward the temple entrance. Probably trying to figure out how to salvage this mess.

I’d pity him if I had any left to spare. But monstrous kings and sacrifices don’t deal in tender mercies. We barter in the hard currencies of blood.

Theodora sinks to her knees beside me. “Want me to do the honors?”

Forcing a smile, I tell her, “Tempting, but no. I’ll see to my own stabbing today.”

I focus on the knife, on the hammering of my heart against my ribs, on the sick swoop of my stomach as I raise the blade. I inhale through my nose. Hold it.

And slam six inches of steel through my chest.

Pain explodes through me. I can’t breathe. Can’t scream. Every muscle locks up.

How do you like this tithe, you bastard? I think as my gaze finds Alexios’ stone face once more. Is it sweet enough for you? Loud enough? I hope you choke on it.

Someone screams—the Oracles are here. Tugging, pulling at me. A veiled face blocks my view of the statue. “What have you done, you foolish child?” she snarls. Ah, the Head Oracle.

I laugh—or try to. “I thought… it was… obvious. I’m making… a fucking point.”

“Bring her back.” Theodora’s voice cracks out. Through my dimming vision, I see her grab the Head Oracle’s arm. “The instant her heart stops, you’ll perform the rite, or I swear by all the gods, I’ll have my loyalists sack this temple and tear you apart with their bare hands.”

Darkness spreads, reaching for me, eager to drag me down into the Void. Strange how after so many deaths, I still manage to forget this part—the inexorable slide into the abyss, the helpless feeling of being pulled against my will as all the light fades. Under, under, under. No air, no sound, just a crushing pressure like I’m being buried alive.

In those final, fading moments, my thoughts drift to the Wolf. When I come back, I wonder if this will work or if Alexios will send him to hunt me down and finish what Silas’ knife started. If he does, I hope my blood stains the Wolf’s hands, his wings, his soul, if he even has one. I hope I haunt him.

The shadows claim me. They always do.

Then the Shroud’s power wraps around my soul and pulls, dragging me upward. Hauling me through the suffocating blackness. The pressure shatters, and the Void spits me out.

I gasp awake, choking on air, my fingers already scrambling at my sleeve to find the scars.

One. Breathe.

Two. There’s a breeze on my face and the warm flagstones beneath me.

Three. My name is Bryony.

Four. I’m at Alexios’ temple.

Five. This is real.

I open my eyes, blinking against the harsh sunlight. When I look down, there’s no trace of the wound that killed me—only the sticky, cold residue of Alexios’ blood smeared on me from the revival bowl.

“Get up.” The Head Oracle’s sharp voice cuts through the fog. “And get out. Don’t come back.”

No gentle words to ease the transition. Just a perfunctory ritual, the minimum required to pull my soul from the Void. The message is clear: they don’t give a shit about me. I’m not protected by my service to the Shroud.

I’m no longer required.

It takes two tries to stand even with Theo’s help. Resurrection never gets easier—my body always aches after, like it’s been broken apart and stuck back together wrong.

Silas hovers behind the Oracles, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Jumping into the Rionese Sea, perhaps. Or taking a walk off the palace battlements. Honestly, that makes two of us.

I return his knife, and he takes it without a word, probably wishing he’d never handed it over.

“You okay?” Theodora asks quietly as she leads me down the temple steps. “They didn’t do the aftercare.”

“Fine.” The word comes out flat. “As fine as I can be.”

She helps me into the carriage. I stare out of the window as the vehicle starts toward the palace. For years, this route has defined my existence—palace to temple, temple to palace, over and over again. A life shaped by orders and duty. I’ve given up this body to a god for so long that I can barely remember what it was like to be mine.

And I won’t ever have that again.

Theodora grasps my hand. “We’ll fix this. Just keep up appearances for now, and don’t take that cuff off.”

“Right. Play my part tomorrow night, too?” My lips twist. “Spread my legs for my new husband like a good little princess?”

“One crisis at a time, Bry.”

I nod. It’s not that I don’t trust my sister’s plans. It’s that deep down, I’m already preparing for the Wolf.

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4

EVANDER

THE STENCH FILLS my lungs, one I’ve encountered a thousand times before: mortality combined with power that doesn’t belong to a human.

The man is unaware he’s being hunted. I first caught his scent after an execution in Montorosa, the capital of Havenridge. Then I followed him on the train to Valchek, and watched as he went about his business for the last week. Patiently biding my time. Other than the scent, there’s nothing noteworthy about him. Unremarkable face, average body, boring life. He wears Alexios’ Claim, but that won’t save him—he’s going to be another tally on my centuries-old kill count. Yesterday, I watched him clip his toenails at the dinner table, gather them in the tobacco tin, and eat one. Honestly, I’m doing the realm a favor by killing him.

After he leads me where I want.

He walks the dark street with his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets. I follow from the rooftops, feet soundless. Windows across the city glow as I leap from building to building. Smoke curls from chimneys, and the occasional burst of chatter drifts up from the roads below. My wings tense as I land on another roof, but I keep them tight against my back. No need to announce my presence yet.

He turns onto a narrow lane just off the main road, pausing in front of a shitty little apothecary shop with a faded wooden sign creaking in the wind.

Roots & Remedies. How quaint.

My target knocks on the door, and something dark clenches in my gut at the familiar pattern, the sign I’ve been waiting for: quick-quick-quick, slow-slow—the code of fleshtraders.

The door cracks open. “Yeah?”

“Here for the Butcher.”

The doorman grunts and opens the door wide. “Inside.”

I drop to street level, wrapping myself in invisibility before slipping in after them. The shop looks innocuous enough. Dried plants hang from the ceiling rafters alongside bones and animal hides. Shelves groan under the weight of colored glass jars, their contents floating in murky liquids and oils. Roots and leaves fill the tiny cabinets built into the wall behind the counter.

But it’s for show, a cheap veneer of legitimacy hiding the real merchandise in the back.

My nostrils flare as the apothecary worker’s scent wafts over me. I narrow my eyes at the tall, thin man. He’s been indulging. And if the strength is anything to go by, he’s been on dust for years.

Humans can’t seem to help themselves.

I trail after them as they head down the hall. They stop at a door, and the apothecary fumbles with an oversized ring of keys.

“In here.” He jerks his head, flipping on the light. “Special stock.”

The air inside is cold and tinged with the stink of preservatives. Shelves are packed with my realm’s spoils—books, scrolls, trinkets, and oddities. Stone carvings of Scillarian beasts are perched alongside busts displaying jewelry our demis wore into battle. Beside that sit precious gems in open velvet boxes, infused with god power that glows from within. The plunder of thousands of destroyed lives, stolen from corpses and homes during the human occupation of my realm.

Magic rises with my anger, the heat of it sliding across my skin, but I shove it down before it betrays my presence.

Not yet.

The apothecary approaches an ornate wooden cabinet, pulling out a silk-wrapped parcel.

Something stirs in me—a resonance, like plucking a string and feeling another vibrate in harmony. Power recognizing power. I know what’s in that bundle before he opens it.

No. Not here. Not like this.

“Just got these in,” he says, laying it on the table and unfolding it carefully. “Found in an old war cache. These came right off some ascended prince’s back.”

He flips back the fabric to reveal four dark feathers sparkling with starlight. Bastien’s feathers.

I’m going to rip their throats out.

Memories flash of my brother shackled to the wall of a filthy cell, with his blood pooled on the floor and his wings hacked off. There’s a reason my people call that war the Devouring.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” I watch as the apothecary strokes a feather, picturing myself cutting off his fingers. “Grind these up, and you’ve got pure power. Most just want the high—like swallowing stars. But if you take enough and let it build up in your system? The magic becomes yours.”

Fuck.

I figured the forbidden knowledge still circulated in some corners of the mortal world—it’s what started the war and left gods trafficked for parts. But I haven’t heard it spoken aloud in years. I’ve worked with Alexios and his other Enforcers to eliminate every trace of that information from mortal memories and any documents we could find.

The buyer plucks a feather from the cloth. He holds it up to the light, turning it this way and that, watching the stardust glitter. “They’re old, though. Won’t that affect the potency?”

“Not from an Eternal. You want a taste? First pinch is free.”

At the buyer’s nod, the apothecary reaches beneath the counter to retrieve a silver tray with a tiny pinch of dark powder in the center. My target shoves his sweaty black hair out of his face and bends to snort the dust. When he straightens, his mouth is slack with pleasure, skin pulsing with the glow of stolen Eternal magic.

This. This is what my people broke ourselves trying to stop. What countless demis died fighting.

“Holy fuck,” he gasps. “That’s… That’s…”

“Unreal, right?” The apothecary grins and gestures with his fingers. “Go on, try the power. Just focus a little, and you’ll feel the pull. See what you get.”

The buyer closes his eyes, brows furrowed in concentration. I watch as all the shadows in the room detach, writhing and curling around him like tendrils of smoke. Waiting for his command. Bastien’s magic—the ability to bend and manipulate darkness to his will—flows through this human, diminished but unmistakable.

Just as quickly, the shadows dissipate and settle.

“Shit,” the buyer pants, wiping some of the sweat from his forehead. “It didn’t last.”

“Takes more than a pinch to keep it stable at first,” the apothecary explains. “But that rush? That’ll last a few days. Still feeling it?”

“Yeah.” A jerky nod. “Fuck yeah. I’ll take them all.”

“Two thousand aurelii.”

“Two thousand?” The buyer shakes his head and curses under his breath. “That’s robbery. I can go to the docks and get twice the product for half that.”

The apothecary scowls, expression darkening with impatience. “You can’t compare the demi parts at the docks to the power of an Eternal. I’ve got another buyer who’d kill for this.” He jabs a finger at the feathers. “You want these? Pay up. Eternals don’t exactly grow on trees these days.”

The other man swallows hard, hesitating, but then he reaches for his pocket and pulls out a sweaty wad of folded-up aurelii.

And now it’s time to add some red to my ledger.

With a lunge, I seize the apothecary by the neck and slam him into the wall. The buyer bolts for the door, but a flick of my power freezes him in place.

“Stay,” I snarl. He’ll wait there obediently until I’m ready to deal with him.

The apothecary claws at my wrist, and it’s like watching a fish flopping on the end of a hook. Only in this case, the hook is a pissed-off god he can’t see, and I’m this close to snapping his damn neck. But that would be a waste.

“Where did you get the feathers?” I growl.

“I-It wasn’t—”

“Did you know,” I interrupt in a soft, conversational tone, “that there are fourteen major bones in the human face? And over forty-two muscles working in tandem to create those delightful micro-expressions you humans are so fond of. The one you’re wearing right now is that special expression that says ‘I’m about to lie to the angry god holding me.’” I squeeze hard enough to make him gag. “So let’s try this again. Where the fuck did you get the feathers?”

“Collectors,” he wheezes. “People who scavenge the war zones. Sometimes, they find valuable things.”

“Have more Eternal parts changed hands?”

The apothecary bucks against my hold. Stolen power crackles through him, searing my skin where we touch. He’s devoured our essence for so long that magic saturates his entire body. But it won’t save him from me. I’m more powerful than whoever he’s been consuming—an Eternal. An ascended prince.

“Get fucked,” he says, still struggling. He scratches at my arm, nails digging in. “I’ve got Alexios’ protection.”

This smug prick thinks he’s untouchable. He’s got no clue who I am. What I am.

“Seems you’re confused about who has you pinned to the wall. Let’s have an introduction, shall we?”

My invisibility drops, and I let him get a good look—my gold wings, the wrath burning in my eyes, the promise of a painful, messy end. His breathing quickens, and he releases a pathetic whimper.

Ah, there it is. I love that sound.

“Yeah, you recognize me, don’t you?” I glance at the buyer frozen by the door, smirking as a dark stain spreads across the front of his trousers. “Your friend over there’s already pissed himself. Want to see if you can do better? Tell me where you got those feathers, and I may be moved to mercy.”

I never am, but he doesn’t need to know that yet.

His body shakes against mine. It takes him a few tries to speak. “The m-market. Silk Street, beneath the old tannery in Hellevig.” He lets out a sob. “That’s all I know, I swear. Please—”

“Shhh sh shh.” I tap his lips with a finger. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? But there’s still one more thing I need to do.”

I mentally reach for the tether that binds me to Alexios—a shimmer at the edges of my consciousness. When I pluck gently, his attention sharpens.

What is it, Wolf?

I need you to burn two Claims, I tell him.

Why?

Alexios will do it without hesitation, but he likes to remind me that for all my power, he’s the one who holds my chain.

Because these sick fucks have been trafficking Eternal parts. They have Bastien’s feathers.

His silence has a weight that crushes. The tension in my skull swells as his power gathers, dark and dense as a singularity.

Show me.

My will becomes subsumed by his. I’m helpless as he forces his way in, peeling back my eyes and flooding my senses. He feels the apothecary’s body pinned against the wall. Sees the buyer cowering by the door. He turns us to the till’s table where the four feathers rest, each one a damning indictment of all he’s built and bled for.

Destroy them. Make it slow. Make it painful.

With pleasure, I say.

I wrench the apothecary’s wrist up and watch as a slash cuts through the Claim. And then the eye in the center of the triangle winks shut.

“No,” the apothecary whimpers, sobbing now. “No—”

I hush him again. “Quiet. It’s time to revisit your chat about getting acquainted with an Eternal’s power. I’d hate to leave you unsatisfied.” I graze my thumb over his throat. “Few humans know what we can do with these pretty feathers on our wings once we become Eternals. Want me to show you?”

His eyes bulge. “Please, I—”

I unfurl my wings with a snap, and the razored edge of my primary feathers slices through his shoulder to the bone beneath. Quick and clean as a scalpel.

The apothecary’s severed arm drops to the floor with a thud. He gives a choked gurgle, gaping at the bleeding stump where his arm used to be in silent shock.

“Not so amusing now, is it?” I ask mildly. “Being vivisected for parts?”

I take my time dismembering him.

The apothecary’s screams ring out, but I don’t let him die. He’ll feel it all—every cut parting skin from muscle, muscle from bone. I carve my fury into his body and paint sigils in his blood. Killing him is art. Each wound tells the story of how he died, why he deserved it, and what drove the Wolf of Asteria to visit this shitty little shop in Valchek. I break him so badly that he weeps for his mother like a fucking baby at the end.

When his whimpers fade to noiseless twitches, I finally end him. My magic unclenches, and his head topples from his shoulders.

It’s almost anticlimactic.

My focus snaps to the buyer still held in place by my power. His breath saws in and out, panicked.

“And then there was one,” I say with a grin. “Want to tell me about those docks you mentioned earlier?”

I don’t play in this one’s guts. But I do get him to sing for me, and he babbles about the docks in Valchek getting shipments, but he doesn’t know from where, doesn’t know the suppliers—just knows where to go when he needs a fix. So I torture him a little more to make sure he’s being honest. By the time my flames start burning his lungs, he’s whimpering that he doesn’t know, and that’s my sign to finally put this bastard down. He combusts from the inside out in a blaze of my burning power, skin melting off and bones blackening. His screams echo long after his lungs collapse to ash.

When it’s done, blood drips from my wings and pools at my feet. Something in me settles. Quiets. I want to etch this into my bones as fuel for the hunts to come. For all the deaths I’ll grant the oathbreakers, the fleshtraders, any buyer who sets aurelii down for god parts to consume like we’re animals.

I collect Bastien’s feathers and tuck them into my armor to burn later. There’s still something I need to do here first.

I shut my eyes and gather my magic, letting it rise until my skin heats. And then I release it in a searing wave that crashes over the room.

When I open my eyes, nothing in the shop is left but drifting motes of ash and the crackle of super-heated stone. I stride into the waiting night. The cobbles steam in my wake, puddles flash-boiling to vapor. Passersby scramble out of my path.

Good. Let them remember what happens to fleshtraders in this city.

Alexios’ voice slides into my thoughts, as cold as a blade. If you’re finished playing with your food, I need you at my palace. I have another throat for you to slit.

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