Текст книги "The wolf and the crown of blood"

Автор книги: Elizabeth May

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Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

51

BRYONY

THE BOAT ROCKS as if it’s trying to fling me into the sea.

Every wave that slaps against the hull sends another burst of icy water into my face. My hands are numb from gripping the sides of the boat. The wood is rotting and salt-stained—exactly the kind of vessel you’d expect from someone hoping you’ll drown before reaching shore.

Ahead, the walls of the Onyx Keep emerge from the fog. The building is hidden behind the high barrier, but the stonework is imposing. It looms. Back in Vartena, mothers used to frighten their children with tales of Nyholm and the Dark King’s wrath. How he decorates those walls with the bones of trespassers.

I never thought I’d be stupid enough to test those stories.

Another wave sends the boat lurching. I pull my coat tighter around my shoulders, but the cold suffusing my limbs has nothing to do with the frigid water.

No, this is the chill of primal terror. And I’d be lying if I said some part of me wasn’t tempted to spin this rickety death trap around to Asteria.

After a few more minutes, the boat hits the shallows, and I vault onto land. It takes every ounce of strength to drag the vessel onto the narrow strip of beach. By the time I wrestle it under a gnarled tree, my arms are trembling. It’s not the best hiding spot, but it’ll have to do. I can’t afford to waste more time.

I study the wall stretching up before me. The barrier juts out of the rocks in columns of quartz and basalt fitted together. Sea spray and dark lichen coat the stones, but where the dying light hits just right, the wall shimmers with an inner luminescence, as if someone bottled starlight and poured it into the rock.

That’s when I hear it—a flap of wings. Power rolls across the beach in a crackling tide of electricity.

I jerk my head up to see a demigod soldier emerging from the mist, wearing gleaming silver armor. His gray feathers spread wide as he veers sharply toward the keep. The air warps around him, sparking with his magic, the charged scent growing stronger.

“Shit, shit, shit.” I press deeper into the shadows under the branches.

They hung the bodies from the walls and let the birds pick them clean.

That’s what my governess told me about what the Dark King did to the last Devaliants who breached his borders.

My heart pounds so hard I’m sure the sound will give me away. But then the demigod vanishes behind a crumbling parapet.

I let out a relieved exhale. Right, then. Guard presence, unknown numbers, and clearly on edge.

This is fine. Everything’s fine.

I eye the seawall again. It looks no less daunting on the second inspection—smooth as polished glass, without so much as a dead vine to offer purchase. But there’s an uneven ribbon of stairs hewn directly into the cliffside that might offer a better vantage.

Better than nothing.

Keeping low, I sprint across the beach, sticking to the deepest shadows at the base of the bluffs. My boots slip on wet rocks as I navigate the terrain. The path switches back and forth, the incline steep enough to make my already sore muscles scream in protest. But I grit my teeth and focus. One wrong step, one loose stone, and I might as well ring a dinner bell for the guards.

The distant crash and drag of the waves fade to a muted roar, replaced by the wind whipping itself into a gale—

A prickle dances across my nape. Then I hear the unmistakable crunch of boots over scree.

I don’t hesitate. I lunge for the shadowy cleft in the stones to my right, folding my body into the tight recess and wedging myself as far back as I can go. Trying to make myself small. Invisible.

A ball of light pierces the fog, the edges of the nimbus nearly licking the toes of my boots. A figure materializes from the mist with broad shoulders, soot-dark wings, and armor.

Another demigod sentry.

Fuck. I’m a hairsbreadth from discovery, and there’s nowhere left to run. My lungs turn to stone in my chest. Don’t breathe. Don’t blink. Don’t so much as twitch, or it’s all over.

The guard’s head cocks as he scents the air. An endless moment passes while I hold my breath.

Go. Please fly away. Please don’t scent anything mortal.

The wind shifts. A sudden gust drags in the noxious scent of rotted fish from the sea. The guard wrinkles his nose and scowls, then he launches himself into the air with a powerful flap of his wings, disappearing into the mists.

I sag against the stone. If that breeze hadn’t covered the scent of my mortality—

Move. Get inside before they double back.

I scan the seawall above for anywhere I might slip through, and… there—a fissure in the stone latticework, barely wider than my shoulders. The edges are crumbled and broken, and it’s a tight fit, but if I angle my body just so—

Power lashes across my senses a split second before the heavy thump of wingbeats sounds once more.

No. Not again.

I scramble up the sheer rock face, my fingers hooking into grooves and fissures. With a silent prayer to the stars, I heave my body into the narrow gap and wiggle through. For a breathless moment, I’m certain I’ll get stuck. Easy prey for Nyholm’s gods. But then I leverage myself with a grip on the rocks and fall on the other side.

I hit the ground hard. All the air rushes out of my lungs, and for a second, I can’t do anything but lie there, bracing for the inevitable shout of soldiers.

But there’s nothing. No shouts, no footsteps. Just wind rattling through dead things and waves hitting rocks below.

Pushing up on my elbows, I take stock of my surroundings. I’ve landed in what must have once been a grand garden. Skeletal trees claw at the mist-choked sky, their leaves blackened and curled in on themselves like burnt paper. Statues dot the garden, depicting gods with limbs shattered and heads gone. One has a woman pressed against a male’s chest, her face turned up like she’s begging. Another of a goddess with her wings snapped off at the shoulder blades, reaching for a companion who’s broken beyond recognition. Dark ivy wraps through eye sockets, between fingers, like it’s trying to drag them all down into the earth. Because this? This is a graveyard.

And beyond it all looms the keep.

There’s something eerily beautiful about this place in all its faded grandeur. The stonework is crystalline, like solidified starlight, with spires toppled and broken. Former bridges of sparkling pale rock lead nowhere now. It looks like a palace of jagged glass. The walls have battle scars—places where the masonry is more crumbled than others.

“Just go,” I whisper to myself. “Finish this.”

I push to my feet and pick my way between the statues, trying not to look at their faces. Trying not to think about the lovers frozen in stone and the broken limbs. Was this from the war? Or did someone… do this on purpose?

Stop it. Staying still means thinking, and thinking means remembering that being here is insane.

The windows throw back my reflection as I pass, but I ignore my warped image and spot a gap where a window shutter dangles on rusted hinges.

There we go. That’s my way in.

I press my fingers into the small opening. The weakened wood protests, then yields with a soft crack that might as well be a thunderbolt in the preternatural quiet. I wait, but there’s only silence.

My hands tremble as I work the opening wide enough to fit through. The chamber beyond is dark and empty, but I swear I feel eyes watching me. Waiting.

But it’s too late to turn back now.

In, out. Get what I came for, and get gone.

I lower myself into the room. The air presses close, thick with the scent of mold and decay. My stomach turns. I breathe through my mouth and wait for my eyes to adjust. There’s not much here—a shelf clinging to one mildewed wall with old books spilled onto the floor, some trinkets collecting dust on a few tables, a telescope at the window. But that proof of someone previously here sends a frisson of unease through my gut. They watched the stars. They read these books and walked the bridges in this keep, and probably never imagined it would all crumble like this.

The desk draws me forward.

A scattering of maps peeks through the grime, hundreds of years out of date, but I’d know those borders anywhere—the spine of the Duehavn Ridge as it cleaves the realms. Two sides of a coin.

My breath catches when I spot the sigil marking Hellevig, carved so deep it nearly pierces the parchment. I can almost see the Dark King hunched over these maps, plotting my family’s destruction.

The sensation of a gaze boring into my back sharpens.

I whirl, reaching for my knife, but there’s only darkness. Shadows twisting in on themselves. The curtains move, but it’s only the wind through the broken window.

Go, Bryony. Now.

I ease open the door. The space between my shoulder blades prickles again.

Find the atrium. Get it done.

My fingers trail along the wall as I move deeper into the keep, hurrying past dozens of shadowed doors. It reminds me of the crypt beneath Hellevig’s temple—that same weight that makes you want to hold your breath. Makes you feel like you’re trespassing. The air feels hungry here, too sharp, like a monster’s maw waiting to devour me.

I count doors as I pass. Seven. Eight. Nine. My fingernails dig into my palms, and my shirt sticks to my back with sweat.

Stop thinking. Move.

I round the corner, and—

My breath catches at the vast chamber with soaring columns and a vaulted glass oculus. Even choked in dust, devoid of light, I can see the bones of what this room once was. How it would have dazzled before the war made it a ruin. Every inch of the pale stonework is carved with elaborate filigree, and there are more statues of goddesses standing regally with their wings spread, carved out of dark rock. Ivy creeps up the walls and around the staircase.

My gaze sweeps the abandoned chamber, falling to the table against the far wall with crumbling scrolls and ancient ledgers. Sitting right there is a small chest just as Alexios described.

I stumble toward it. Some last thread of survival instinct screams a warning: Too easy too easy this is too fucking easy. But hope is a cruel master. It drowns out the doubt as I grab the small chest and cradle it.

Then a hand clamps around my wrist, rings glinting. A voice scrapes against my ear, cold as the grave: “I don’t like mortals in my territory.”

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52

BRYONY

I’M YANKED AROUND, and I forget how to breathe.

I’d recognize the Dark King anywhere. He may not be painted on temple murals like Evander, but the stories were clear enough that this god was as devastatingly beautiful as the rest.

He’s gorgeous in that lethal way that screams danger. Indigo hair frames his striking features: storm-gray eyes rimmed in molten gold, high cheekbones, straight nose, square jaw. When he tilts his head, light catches on the delicate silver piercings climbing up his ear. His body is as muscular as the other Eternals, but with the lean lines of a dancer rather than a warrior. His massive wings spread wide, the dark blue feathers scattered with flecks of gold, like starlight against a deepening twilight sky.

“A Devaliant. I’d recognize that fucking skin anywhere.” A slow, wicked smile curves his mouth. “I’m dying to know what made you think trespassing into my territory was a solid choice. Most people prefer to keep their internal organs, you know, internal.”

“I’m here for the chest.” I force myself to meet his gaze. “Nothing else.”

“The chest?” His attention drops to the box clutched in my grip, and recognition sparks. “Please tell me Alexios didn’t punt your fragile human ass into my lands for that. Though I suppose dangling an expendable mortal in front of the death god would be his brand of fuckery. Classic Storm move.”

“I need it,” I say, fighting the urge to step back. “For my Chosen.”

A low, contemplative hum. Then he leans in, crowding into my space. I nearly yelp when he drags his nose along my skin and scents me.

“Here’s the thing about that,” he murmurs against my thundering pulse. “When someone starts throwing around words like ‘Chosen,’ there’s usually a magical signature announcing to the world which pitiful bastard’s soul you’ve tangled yourself up with.” Another deep inhale. “But you? You’re blank. Empty. No mark. No Claim.”

I flinch at the reminder of what Alexios took from me. The place where the bond used to be aches, like pressing on a bruise that won’t heal.

“So now you’re going to tell me what a Princess of the Blood is doing in my territory.” His voice drops, soft and deadly. “Because my demis have been going missing for months, and when a Devaliant shows up uninvited, that’s what we call suspicious timing.”

Of course, I’ve been dropped in the middle of a diplomatic crisis on top of everything else. That explains the patrols outside and the heightened security. He thinks I’m connected to his missing people. And Alexios knew exactly what he was throwing me into, that manipulative bastard.

“I have nothing to do with your missing people,” I say, raising my arms. “I’m just here for the chest.”

“Try again.” He smacks my prize out of my grasp, and it clatters to the floor as he locks his fingers around my forearm. “I need more convincing.”

His power crackles through the air, and the sleeve of my coat disintegrates beneath his grip. A ragged gasp leaves me as rot spreads from his fingers across my exposed skin.

“Going once. That’s the death touch setting in. Hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Stop stop stop. Wait.” I try to yank away, but he just holds me more firmly. The tips of my fingers shrivel and twist, consumed by the creeping decay.

Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods—

“Going twice. Necrosis is such a fascinating process, really. First, the blood flow stops. Then the tissue starts to die. Then—”

“Okay.” A hitching sob hiccups out of me. “Okay, just…”

“Princess, I suggest you find better words than that, or I’ll let the rot spread somewhere vital.”

Fuck this.

My free hand closes around the hilt of the dagger at my waist. I rip the blade free and slash at his hand. Surprise flickers across his face, and his hold loosens a fraction—just enough.

I drive my knee up, aiming for his groin, but he shifts at the last second. The instant his hold breaks, I bolt, scooping up the chest and sprinting toward the exit. Behind me, I hear his laugh of delight.

“Now that’s more like it!”

Run run run—

But I slam face-first into what feels like a brick wall. Magic yanks me back.

The Dark King stalks toward me, and there’s something almost approving in the way his eyes glitter. “Solid effort. Most mortals just piss themselves and beg.”

I don’t waste my breath on words. Just pivot and slash the dagger at his chest.

He releases me with a grunt, glancing down at his torn shirt. “Changed my mind. I’ll let you live a little longer—call it payment for the sheer fucking audacity. This box must be worth its weight in solid gold to you if you’re fighting tooth and nail to keep it. So fuck it, I’m feeling generous. Fight for it and make it good for me.”

The Dark King’s power detonates. His magic sends me stumbling back, and I drop the box, gagging as the taste of grave dirt floods my mouth. The stones where I’d just been standing crack open in a deafening BOOM—

And skeletal hands burst through the crumbling stone.

What the fuck.

Those dead fingers grasp and claw, pulling themselves out of some crypt beneath my feet. More stones shatter as they climb out—crack crack crack—one after another after another, clawing up from whatever mass grave they’ve been rotting in. The stench hits me in a reek of putrefaction.

The first corpse finally drags itself out of the ruined stonework.

Rotten clothes and armor crusted with filth cling to its desiccated flesh. That’s when I notice its breastplate is emblazoned with a crest I know intimately: the serpent eating its own heart.

The sigil of House Devaliant—and of the Lucinian legion.

My stomach drops. These are the bodies of the Vartenan soldiers who tried to invade Nyholm three hundred years ago.

“Let’s play a game!” the Dark King calls. “It’s called ‘how many corpses does it take to make a Devaliant scream?’ First to stab her gets to be alive again for a night.”

What an asshole.

The corpse nearest to me turns its head, and those empty eye sockets fix on my face. Its jaw unhinges in a silent scream—and then it lunges.

I stumble back. “Shit!”

More claw their way up from the crypt beneath the shattered flagstones, each in varying stages of decay—some skeletal, some with flesh still hanging off their bones. Soon, the atrium is choked with bodies and the stink of decay.

Make space. Amara’s lessons flood back. Don’t let them box you in.

So I try to keep my distance. A corpse pounces from my left, fingers catching my sleeve, and the fabric rips as I jerk away. I bring my blade down on its legs, but it keeps crawling toward me.

“I’m upping the stakes!” The Dark King’s voice echoes through the melee. “Winner gets to do whatever they want with her!”

My vision goes red. “You sick piece of shit!”

A rotting hand closes around my leg. I stomp down hard, and bones give way under my boot. Another corpse grabs for my hair, and I duck and slash, taking the thing’s head clean off.

Keep moving. I can almost feel Amara correcting my stance. They can’t stab what they can’t catch.

There are too many of them. They’re everywhere now, climbing over each other to get to me in an endless tide of dead. Severed arms and legs twitch and grab at my ankles. If I fall, I’m finished. I leap over the ruined stonework and the dark, gaping hole of the underground chamber where the dead are spilling from.

How many damn corpses is this asshole keeping under this place? Did he just collect every person who ever pissed him off?

Through it all, the Dark King watches from his perch on the staircase, wings spread lazily across the steps. “Having fun yet? I can add more if this isn’t challenging enough.” He stretches, getting more comfortable. “You know what builds character? Near-death experiences. Also actual death, but it’s less useful for the learning process.”

“Go”—I duck under grasping hands—“fuck yourself!”

I’m really starting to hate him.

Sweat stings my eyes. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision, and I can barely get air into my lungs. My good hand is starting to cramp around the knife handle, and I’m trembling with the effort to keep moving, keep fighting, but they’re relentless. Determined. Fingers hook into my calf, and I kick free only to have another hand clamp around my elbow, threatening to drag me down—

“Hold!” The Dark King’s command freezes the horde mid-motion. “Bravo, everyone. Stellar performance.” He slow-claps, pushing to his feet. “Haven’t had this much entertainment since… actually, no, this might be a new record. But since none of you managed to properly maim her”—he flicks his fingers and the corpses crumble into piles of bones and ash all around me—“back in the dirt you go.”

“I hate you and Alexios both,” I rasp, brushing the ash off my coat. “I can’t decide which of you is the bigger asshole.”

“Hate’s such an intimate emotion. Almost as good as fear, and definitely better than love. At least hate’s honest.” He walks toward me, studying me with those storm-gray and gold eyes. “Want to tell me why you’re really here stealing that box, or should I call back the horde for another round? I bet we could fit a thousand in here if we get creative with the spacing. Really test that stamina of yours.”

I glare at him. “Alexios sent me for the box. That’s it. Let me leave, and you’ll never see me again.”

“Is that so? See, there’s something you should know. Storm could have asked for this box at any time. We may hate each other, but we still have to play nice for politics.” He stops in front of me and crosses his arms. “He sent you here because he knew I’d be interested in watching a Devaliant fight for this thing. So what do I get out of giving it to you?”

I blink, baffled. “I don’t—what?”

“The box, honey. Keep up. You want it, I have it. I know exactly what’s inside it.” He spreads his hands. “When two parties hit a wall, they negotiate. Usually with less attempted murder.”

“What do you want?”

The Dark King grins again, circling me in a slow, predatory stalk. “So many options. I could see how many organs I can remove before you stop breathing. The record is seven, in case you were wondering. Or maybe I’ll keep you. Wind you up like a pretty doll and make you dance for my court. The irony of a Devaliant serving drinks to the people her family tried to slaughter? Perfection.” He pauses, considering. “Really, it’s an embarrassment of riches. Which would you prefer? I’m feeling charitable enough to let you pick.”

“Before you start contemplating body parts, you should know the Wolf’s my Chosen. I need the box for him. Alexios covered his Claim so you’d kill first and ask questions never.”

He gives a little laugh. “Oh, right. I did hear whispers about the Wolf losing his mind over some human pussy. Hard to believe Evander’s standards dropped that low.”

“The laws protect Chosen—”

“The laws protect legitimate Claims. But all I see is a Devaliant with no proof except her word, and that means less than shit to me.”

That’s it, that’s the last straw on this terrible day. I’m tired of everyone’s shit. No more playing nice.

Screaming through my teeth, I lunge at him and slam the Dark King into the nearest pillar, burying my dagger into his shoulder. It’s a clumsy strike, wild and artless. A final blaze of glory since he’s probably going to kill me anyway.

He just smiles, and it’s the most beautiful, terrifying thing I’ve ever seen. “Oh, fuck yes.” He yanks the knife free, twirling it between his fingers as the wound knits shut. “I knew you’d be—” He freezes, studying the blade with sudden intensity. Then he asks with deadly softness, “Where did you get this knife?”

I step back, my heel catching on an uneven flagstone as I hurry to put space between me and the intense emotion radiating from him.

Trap trap trap, something in me gibbers. Caught caught caught.

“I-It’s mine. Not that it’s any of your—”

“Did you steal it? Buy it from a fleshtrader?”

“Of course not! I—”

The Dark King seizes my throat and slams me into a pillar hard enough to make my teeth rattle. “Then let’s try this again.” His fingers tighten. “Tell me where you got the knife, or I’ll ask your corpse.”

Stars burst across my vision. “Gift—during Aethertide. A-Ama—” I claw at his grip as pressure builds. “Amara. Her name was—”

He wrenches his hand away. I collapse to my knees, gulping desperate lungfuls of air. The roaring in my ears drowns out his next clipped words.

“—trained you how to use it, too. Didn’t she?”

I squint up at him. “Sorry. Hard to hear over the sound of you trying to crush my windpipe.”

“You move like her,” he says with an impatient gesture. “Those turns, those strikes—that’s her style all over.”

I nod. Anything to keep his hands away from my throat.

He stares at me for a long moment, something raw and complicated moving in his expression. Then he sighs, shuts his eyes, and mutters, “Fuck.” He offers the knife and jerks his head toward the door. “Take your knife and your fucking box and go.”

I stare at him as I accept the blade, not understanding the sudden rigid line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. None of this makes sense. The Eternal that parents invoke to terrify unruly children into obedience is just… letting me go with my organs where they belong? After all this? Because I mentioned Amara?

“Why?”

He exhales sharply. “Because if Amara gave you this, she’d be pissed with me if I made your corpse dance. And I try not to disappoint her, even if I’m shit at it.”

I force myself upright on shaking legs and grab my prize before he changes his mind.

“Wait.” He jerks his chin at my withered arm. “I can’t heal your other injuries, but I can repair the necrosis.”

He crooks his fingers before I can cringe away, and a pulse of his magic sparks beneath my skin. Not the same consuming arousal as Evander’s, just… warmth. Like liquid sunshine in my veins. I watch as healthy flesh flows over the rotted black, whole and unblemished once more.

“There.” The Dark King meets my stunned gaze, his face giving away nothing. “Good as new. Don’t mention this to my Chosen, and we’ll call it even.”

Understanding slams into me. The reason for his mercy, the softness limning his words.

“You.” My mouth opens and closes. “You’re Amara’s Chosen? The one who she—”

Regrets.

So that’s why all those demis bowed to her in Caelestis during Aethertide. She’s bonded to an Eternal. Not just any Eternal—a scary as shit death god. No wonder she had all that paint warning everyone off.

At my words, the Dark King’s expression frosts over, as remote and pitiless as the void between stars. “Get out.”

He turns away in a whisper of shadow and indigo feathers, his wings stretching.

‘I’m halfway across the atrium when his voice rings out again, softer this time. Almost hesitant.

“Was she… okay? When you saw her last? Did she look well?”

With his guard momentarily lowered—when he sounds like that, as if he’s been yearning for years—I see what Amara must have seen. What made her Choose him despite everything.

I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. “She seemed happy. Strong. Still lights up any room she walks into.”

“Good.” There’s a slight bend to his shoulders, as if hearing that answer pains him. “That’s good. Glad to hear it.”

“Would you…” I bite my lip. “Would you like me to say something to her? As thanks for letting me live?”

He blinks. “No.”

Hard. Final. Whatever vulnerability I saw is gone, replaced by the ruthless Eternal of Nyholm, head of the Dark Court.

“Okay.” I clear my throat. “I’ll just be going, then. Alexios has Evander, and I’m here because I negotiated to unbind his powers. This was one of my tests.”

“Well, who am I to judge someone’s suicidal devotion to their Chosen?” He gestures to the door. “Get out of here before I change my mind. And Princess? Next time Alexios wants to use you as bait? Tell him to go fuck himself.”

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