Текст книги "The wolf and the crown of blood"

Автор книги: Elizabeth May

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

5

EVANDER

NOTHING BEATS THE first flight after a kill. The knowledge of a job well done is better than ichor wine. Better than sex.

Well, sometimes. Depends on the job, depends on the fuck.

The Shroud shimmers ahead, a veil of starlight over the jagged peaks of the Duehavn Ridge. I slice through it, magic sparking across my skin as the protection wards flare and recognize me. Reality splinters, and Vartena disintegrates until I’m nowhere, suspended in that terrifying emptiness until—

The world snaps back together.

Scillari’s forests spread out below, broken by the ruins of old territories jutting up through the dense canopy. Trees emerge through crumbling throne rooms, towers are snared in the crush of vines, and ancient palaces of long-dead Eternals lie vacant and dilapidated. Nature is patient. Doesn’t matter how grand your territory—give her enough time, and she’ll turn your monuments to rubble.

Rivers of starlight snake through the valleys of Asteria, Alexios’ territory. And past that, water thunders down a massive cliff face, misting the Osbu Sea’s glassy surface.

I ride an updraft toward the Tokle Mountains. Sheer walls of granite and basalt rear up to meet me, their flanks shrouded in fog. Alexios’ palace resembles a crown of black glass nestled in the crags. It’s a sprawling complex of spires and bridges, barracks and pleasure gardens. Every part is built from dark opalescent stone native to Asteria. During the day, when the sun hits just right, all that black rock glows with red and orange inner light.

The palace is one of only two Eternal strongholds still standing. It survived because of its position—too high for human armies to reach, and too well defended if they tried. For a time, it served as a refuge for demis who had lost everything but the clothes on their backs. But now it’s back to housing the elite in the Court of Storms, the assembled descendants of past Eternals who live alongside the reigning god-king.

The garden stretches across the front of the property. In summer, it blazes with colorful blooms visible for miles. But now, during winter, only pale blossoms and glittering frost remain.

I close the remaining distance to the landing plaza, wings spreading wide as I land in a crouch.

Upended chalices and abandoned garments litter the grass—telltale signs of a revel. Not even the cold is a deterrent when the court wants to party. When I inhale, the scent of ichor wine hits me, mingled with the musk of sex and sweat.

“About time you showed up,” comes Elias’ familiar voice. “We were starting to think you’d found yourself a different group of degenerates.”

I turn to find the king’s other Enforcers in various states of undress and sobriety. Elias lounges against the fountain’s edge, white wings spread beneath him, shirt long gone. Gabriel stands with his typical stern expression. I swear, it’s like someone shoved a stick up his ass and he’s determined to keep it there out of spite. Arcadia casually tosses one of her knives, silver wings rustling behind her as she snatches it from the air. And Vespera… she just watches me with shadows coiled around her fingers.

“You’d all die of boredom if I weren’t here to keep things interesting.” I kick at a discarded silk robe with my boot. “Starting the orgy without me, though? That’s rude.”

Arcadia’s face scrunches. “You smell like an abattoir fucked a sewer. Clean it off, and I might consider extending an invitation next time. No one here wants to use blood as a lubricant. We have standards.”

“Standards are overrated. Just ask Elias.”

Elias laughs. “Ignore her. I think the whole ‘savage beast fresh from a kill’ look works for you.”

His power brushes my skin in a subtle tendril of lust. Warm. Insistent. Not unpleasant, if I’m honest, but after centuries of this shit, I’ve built up a tolerance.

“Cute,” I say, shaking it off. “Save it for someone who hasn’t seen your dick.” A rumble of thunder draws my attention to the palace proper, where storm clouds are gathering above the highest spires. That can’t be good. “Do I want to ask what crawled up the king’s ass and died? He says he wants me to kill someone.”

Gabriel rubs at the bridge of his nose. “No idea. Nearly took my hand off earlier when I tried to give him my report on the border patrols. Apparently, we’re all incompetent children who couldn’t find our own asses with both hands and a map.”

“Any volunteers to go in with me?”

Elias barks out a laugh. “Pass. I like my face the way it is. You’re on your own with this one.”

Everyone agrees.

“Cowards,” I say.

Their voices chase me across the plaza. Elias shouts something about kissing my mangled corpse. Arcadia and Vespera place bets on which gate would look best adorned with my severed head—the west gate has a certain dramatic flair, but you can’t beat the east gate at sunrise.

The ladies have taste, I’ll give them that.

I’ve barely crossed into the foyer when Alexios’ power slams into me. Dark. Turbulent. Like facing down a hurricane. I breathe it in, letting that electric bite sear my throat.

The palace buzzes with noise. Everywhere, clusters of demis draped in silk and jewels block my way. Snippets of gossip whisper past me, slipping between languages—Gaufian and Uruk, the singsong cadence of Fér. I track the noise to the central atrium and step onto the balcony. A hundred pairs of eyes lock on me at once. There’s a collective intake of breath.

What can I say? I make an entrance. All artists sign their work; blood is just my signature.

Their whispers trail me as I descend the grand staircase.

“… blood everywhere, all over his hands and wings. Looks like he bathed in…”

“Tore through an entire village, I heard. Ripped them apart with his teeth.”

I flash the scandalized speaker a lazy smile. “If you ask nicely, I’ll demonstrate.”

The demigod shrinks back as if I might rip his throat out. Which I wouldn’t. It’s poor form to kill guests in the throne room. The thing is, though—they’ve got the basic facts right. There’s always a village that won’t be showing up on any maps anymore. Plenty of them over the years, actually.

Death is my craft, and I’m nothing if not a master artisan.

Alexios lounges on his throne at the far end of the chamber. His massive, dark wings stretch almost lazily, red feathers catching in the light. His chin is propped in his hand, shoulder-length black hair loose and framing a face that rivals Elias’ for beauty. The Eternal of Asteria has cultivated the appearance of a bored, pleasure-seeking king. But when his scarlet eyes find mine through the press of bodies…

There he is. The predator beneath the facade—a god shaped for battle, ready to eat the world whole and pick his teeth with the bones. That look right there is the difference between a king and a demi in this realm.

We don’t build dynasties on birthright in Scillari. Power isn’t passed to whichever squalling infant is pushed out of the right cunt. You want to rule here? Better be prepared to bleed for it. To kill for it. To have the realm crawl inside you like a parasite, working its way into your bones until you either ascend or die trying. I was five hundred when it chose me. The youngest ever blessed with the magic of an Eternal—and it nearly killed me.

Alexios is far older. That time, the realm selected a ruthless, calculating monster. And it picked well. When everything went to shit during the war, he and the Dark King were the only reason Scillari didn’t fall to human armies.

“Clear the room,” he says, voice soft but carrying to every corner of the chamber.

The courtiers move swiftly at the king’s command. Within minutes, it’s just the two of us, the silence shattered by the boom of thunder outside.

Alexios studies me. “I see you enjoyed yourself today, Wolf.”

“I did. They didn’t.” I give him a smirk. “Funny how often it shakes out that way.”

“Anything useful?”

The stench of the shop wafts through my memory. The piss-reeking heap of offal that had once been the proprietor.

“Got an address from the apothecary before I cut his throat. Silk Street, beneath the old tannery in Hellevig. Could be nothing, could be a solid lead. The buyer also mentioned fleshtraders working the docks.”

His jaw tightens. “Which docks?”

“Valchek. But they were sourced from elsewhere. I’ll brief Zephyr on what I managed to torture out of him and have her keep an ear to the ground while I handle Silk Street,” I say, referring to Alexios’ spymaster. “It’s urgent.”

“Define urgent.”

I take a breath. This is the part that’s going to make him lose his shit. “The apothecary knew that consuming our kind gives mortals temporary access to our abilities. He wasn’t just pushing demi parts as a high. He had a whole setup—back room, display cases, regular buyers. Professional operation. If he knew, the network knows.”

Alexios stares at me. But I feel the storm building—that pressure change right before lightning strikes.

Then his power detonates.

Lightning tears through the chamber. It ricochets off the marble walls and shatters a column to my left, leaving smoking black trails across stone that has survived centuries of immortal tantrums. The stink of ozone floods my nose, sharp and metallic, mixing with the smell of burnt stone.

Then, as suddenly as it started, it stops.

Alexios uncurls his fingers from the throne. “Did you find anything else?” he asks, the words soft. Like he hadn’t just lost control. “Any other relics?”

My gut twists. I know what he’s asking. What he’s been driving himself half-mad hunting for.

He wants to know if I found his sister.

“No. There was nothing else. I’m sorry.”

And I am. I understand his grief as intimately as my own. I still wake up sometimes thinking I’m back three hundred years, desperately digging through the ruins of my homeland, searching for bodies.

That kind of wound doesn’t heal. Not really. Might scab over if you’re lucky, but underneath? The rot keeps spreading. Working deeper. Eating you alive from the inside until one day, it finally reaches your heart.

When Alexios speaks again, his voice is flat. “Keep me updated.” He stands, his wings flaring wide. “Walk with me. This involves Hellevig. I have something to show you.”

He guides me through the palace corridors to the great Eternium vault—god-steel, they call it. The bones of immortals broken and reforged into an impenetrable shell. Whorls and runes of power score its face, the metal seeming to drink the light. Ancient wards burst to life beneath his touch. With a groan, the vault opens to reveal the Eternal’s private sanctum.

And there, at the chamber’s heart, is a pool.

We stop at the edge. My reflection stares back, and then the surface changes, settling on the interior of the temple in Hellevig. But something is wrong. The marble altar stands bare and neglected—and most damning of all, the offering channels are dry.

The breath leaves me in a rush. “So they’re not making the tithe.” I glance up at him. “Want me to decorate the walls with their insides? Rip out a few spines? Between this and the possible fleshmarket in their capital, seems they need a reminder about honoring agreements.”

“Not yet,” Alexios says, shaking his head. “Destroying Hellevig would damage the Shroud beyond repair. I can redistribute the remaining tithes as a temporary measure, but the foundation is already compromised.” His fingers drum against the pool’s rim. “The problem is their youngest. The masses worship Bryony Devaliant. Get rid of her before we deal with the fleshtrade.”

My head snaps up. Fragments of memory flood in: violet eyes, the blood from my thumbprint stark against her pale skin, her voice steady.

Treat me like an equal.

“She’s your Anchor, Alexios. I can’t fly into Hellevig and take her head without a damn good reason.”

If all three Devaliants die, the Shroud falls. No barrier means no protection. No protection means Scillari is wide open to fleshtraders.

The god-king’s expression goes colder. “I forbade the princess from making her tithe yesterday. She was an oathbreaker the moment she left the temple. And you know what we do to oathbreakers, don’t you, Wolf?”

I raise my brows. “You manufactured a violation of the Accords? That’s impressively cold, even for you.”

“I used the tools available to me,” he corrects, like that makes it any better. “The Accords prevent me from direct interference in Devaliant rule—Amalthea made sure of that. If I’d had my way, you’d be perched in their throne room, ensuring they govern with a bare minimum of competence. But this?” He gestures to the pool, mouth twisting. “The Claim is all the leverage I have left. It’s mine to give and take away through whatever loopholes I had the foresight to hide in that agreement.”

“And killing her for being too popular seems like the best use of that loophole?” I try a different angle. “Idris is supposed to enforce the tithes. If you’re looking for someone to punish, he’s—”

“She’s being worshipped.” Alexios cuts me off with a sharp look. “Do you have any idea what that’s like inside my skull? Thousands of voices chanting her name? The combination of oathbreakers and Shroud rot? Punishing Idris won’t change the fact that the veil is failing because people exalt her above the duty that keeps our realms stable. The risk of keeping her alive far outweighs the potential consequences of eliminating her.” Lightning dances between his fingers. Thunder booms beyond the windows, responding to his emotions. “So the girl dies, or I’ll remind you exactly how tight I can pull your leash.”

I clench my jaw at the reminder. “Send Bastien. He’s been dying to put a Devaliant in the ground for centuries. Let him have this one.”

“Bastien has the subtlety and restraint of a battle-axe. I want a surgeon for this, not a butcher.”

And for better or worse, I’m a god of my word. I made the girl a promise.

If it comes down to it, I’ll make it a good death.

“I’ll handle it,” I tell him.

Lightning arcs over the ceiling. Alexios smiles. “Good. Don’t disappoint me.”

The pool’s surface ripples a final time. I swear I see Bryony Devaliant’s violet eyes before the water goes dark.

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6

BRYONY

THE SERVANTS BUSTLE through the palace gardens, arranging the decorations for my wedding. Dozens of tables are scattered around the central pavilion, covered in cloth stitched with gilt thread. Crystal goblets glint from each place setting. Each bears our family crest—a serpent eating its own heart.

How fitting.

I trail my fingertips over the centerpieces. Nobles from every kingdom in Vartena have flocked here to witness the Lucinian emperor’s niece finally shackle herself to the marriage bed. The tables all pay homage to each country, their trade and culture honored with each item.

The Brevig tables feature vases overflowing with blue flowers draped in pearls and shells. Ollestad’s winter is captured in frosted evergreen boughs and blown glass sculptures resembling snowflakes. And Havenridge, with its nightshade berries and raven feathers, is a study in gothic elegance. Polished amber gleams between each centerpiece, glowing in the light like—

Like the Wolf’s eyes.

My hand jerks back so fast that I nearly knock over a vase. I can’t help seeing his face every time I blink. It’s been two years, but I still recall everything with perfect clarity. The exact shade of his irises, the sunlight glinting across his wings, his mocking smile. The way he stared right through me.

Chasing my targets is irritating.

Digging my nails into my palm, I focus on the last centerpiece—a dedication to Ostavika. Burnished apples are heaped in bowls alongside sheaves of wheat tied with crimson ribbons, a reminder of the fields and hills of my betrothed’s homeland.

I wonder how Markus von Reding would respond if he knew about my mark. What do they say about oathbreakers in Ostavika? That we’re lower than dirt and fouler than shit? That our shadows blight the earth and spoil the crops?

Probably. That hatred runs deep in every corner of Vartena. I’d be disappointed if his people lacked the creativity to put their own spin on it.

A burst of laughter draws my attention. A group of children darts between the servants, playing some game. The oldest, a boy with a wild tangle of dark curls, leans toward his captive audience. He can’t be more than seven, all skinned knees and missing teeth.

“They say the Dark King gobbles up the souls of wicked little children. He’ll snatch you out of your bed and crunch your bones between his teeth if you don’t behave!”

The younger ones gasp. One girl looks like she’s about to cry.

Oh, for the love of—

Apparently, adult supervision has fucked off to get sloshed on wine.

I sigh. “That’s enough,” I call out as I approach. “Let’s not scare your friends with made-up tales.”

“But it’s true, Princess Bryony!” the boy insists. “My father says so!”

Great. This is what happens when nobles have too much time on their hands and start making up wild tales to keep their rebellious children in line.

I drop into a crouch, meeting the boy’s gaze. “Oh really? And I bet the Dark King loves pickled children’s toes, too, right?”

He blinks at me. “Umm. I don’t think so? Maybe?”

“Well, who am I to question a god’s taste?” I shrug with a hint of a smile to let him know I’m playing along. “But I have it on good authority that the Dark King prefers his wicked children braised, not pickled. Something about the marrow going all gelatinous.” That startles a giggle out of one of the younger girls, and I flash her a quick grin before sobering. “Jokes aside, the Dark King may be an Eternal, but the Accords bind him like the rest of us. Do you remember what that means?”

“It means…” His brow furrows in thought. “It means he won’t snatch us out of our beds. Not unless we break the rules first.”

“That’s right.” I tap the eye on his wrist. “You have Alexios’ Claim. He gave us this after Amalthea’s sacrifice to keep us safe from the other gods. That was the deal to end the war. So long as we pay our tithes and spill our blood for the Shroud, you have his protection. And I promise you, the Dark King won’t challenge Alexios. He has no interest in snacking on children. Not their bones, not their toes, and certainly not their hearts.”

I omit the part of my speech where Alexios revoked my protection for imagined slights. No need to shatter the boy’s illusions.

The uncertainty fades from his face. “Swear it? Cross your heart, the Dark King won’t drag me from my bed and gnaw on my toes?”

“Cross my heart.” I make an exaggerated X over my chest. “Now go find a better game to play. I don’t want to hear about you scaring your cousins with stories about the Dark King, okay?”

He flashes me that gap-toothed grin again and scampers off, his little band trailing after him.

I envy them, to be honest. Even when I was that age, I wasn’t that… innocent. You grow up so quickly when you’re a ritual sacrifice. We’re vessels first, Devaliants second, and people a very distant third. And now I’m just tarnished goods.

“Good gods, those children are getting more morbid with each year.” I look over to see Theodora picking her way across the path, wiping sculpting clay off her hands with a cloth. “Should I speak with the nobles about not traumatizing them before bedtime?”

“Please do,” I say. “Last week, I caught Lady Umber’s daughter building salt circles in her bedroom. Apparently, she’s convinced Nyholmian wraiths are living under her bed.” I nod at the residual clay on her fingers. “Sculpt anything worth seeing today?”

“I haven’t sculpted anything worth seeing in years,” she says, shoving the cloth into her frock pocket. “Why do you think I stopped inviting you into my studio? It’s full of garbage.”

“You’ve always been your harshest critic.”

Theodora snorts. There’s a tightness around her eyes as she surveys the staff and all the decorations coloring the garden.

“How are you holding up?” she asks quietly.

I shrug. “I thought I might appreciate the finer things in life. Like wondering: is it better to marry a nobleman who can’t even tie his own boots or have an Enforcer separate my head from my shoulders?”

“Nice. Nothing screams ‘living life to the fullest’ like picturing gruesome deaths and disastrous marriages.”

“Maybe I should get drunk before the consummation.”

“Don’t do that. Passing out in a puddle of your own vomit before Markus pounds you into the mattress is no way to begin a marriage.”

I stare down at my cuff, fidgeting with the clasp. “I just don’t want to think about it. Is that terrible of me? To spend what might be my last hours pretending none of this is happening? That tonight I won’t be shackled to Markus for the remainder of my likely short, miserable life?”

“I’m working on it.” She gives me a tight smile. “Uncle’s looking for you.”

“Lovely. Can’t wait for the lecture on smiling as I’m shoved onto my husband’s co—”

“Bryony. Theodora.”

I turn to face the emperor, steeling myself. He looks like our father, I think. The same features, the same blond hair and blue eyes. But where Father had a gentleness to him, Idris is nothing but edges.

As he draws closer, his scent hits me. He reeks of soap and wine, with that unmistakable after-sex smell. The same overindulgence that once drove him into seclusion after his daughter and my father took their lives. Theodora ruled for ten months while Uncle tried to drink and fuck away his grief.

Idris crosses his arms, and I’m struck by how the famous Devaliant skin—that pearlescent, glittering sheen—highlights the harsh angles of his face.

“Uncle,” Theodora says.

He ignores her, fixing that icy stare on me. “I heard there was an incident at the temple yesterday.”

I should have known better than to trust in my guard’s discretion. Silas probably ran straight to Idris this morning.

I unfasten my bracelet and thrust my arm out, baring the slash carved through Alexios’ Claim. “You mean this incident?”

His fingers close around my wrist, bruising. “What did you do?”

I’ve bled for that Shroud my whole life. Died for it over and over. I refuse to be shamed for this.

“Bryony didn’t do anything,” Theodora snaps. “Alexios revoked her Claim because Hellevig hasn’t been diligent about the tithes. He’s scapegoating her. It’s vindictive.”

“Mind your tone, Theodora.” A muscle jumps in Idris’ jaw. “The Eternal’s word is law. If Alexios decided Bryony’s responsible, it’s not our place to question why.”

“Don’t you dare lecture me on my tone. Not when I’m the one who sat on that throne and held this kingdom together while its emperor was off drinking and fucking his way through every brothel from here to the Red Wastes.”

She’s treading dangerous ground, but I can’t bring myself to stop her. She did pick up the pieces when Idris was gone. And what was her reward? To be cast aside the moment he slunk back from whatever gutter he’d crawled into. Expected to step down without protest.

A fact my sister has never let him forget.

“Bryony wouldn’t be in this position,” she continues, “if you’d spared more than a passing thought for your duty beyond what best serves you. Reminding the people about the tithe is the most basic tenet of statecraft. Is it any wonder Alexios is losing patience with our house? When you can’t even be bothered to uphold your end of the Accords?”

Idris’ hand twitches toward the dagger at his belt. For a moment, I’m certain he’s going to draw it. That today will be the day he finally makes good on his threats to carve the insolence from my sister’s hide.

But then he notices the servants. They’re eyeing us discreetly, listening hard.

Idris slowly leans in, switching to Lybräian, the formal tongue of Vartenan nobility—a language that the staff aren’t permitted to learn.

“That’s rich coming from you, Theodora. Still fucking every guard who looks your way?”

Theodora’s cheeks flush, but she doesn’t flinch.

Idris’ lip curls. “The only reason you ever warmed that throne was the Accords’ requirement for a Devaliant ass in the seat. I’d rather let Silas’ horse sit there than see you sully it again.” He gestures at me. “Bryony will wed Markus as planned. Tonight. Whatever mess she’s made, we’ll sort it after.”

“I’m right here,” I snap, the cadence of Lybräian sharp on my tongue. “And in case it’s slipped your notice, I have a death warrant on my skin. I may not live long enough to see my wedding, let alone sort anything after.”

“You won’t be executed immediately. We have a few days, enough time to smooth things over.”

“You don’t know that.” My nails bite into my palms. “I doubt the Enforcers will be inclined to rearrange their busy murder schedule on your whim.”

Idris’ gaze slides to the servants. They’re no longer pretending they aren’t riveted by the scene unfolding before them. They might not understand the heated Lybräian spilling from our lips, but they know good gossip fodder when they see it.

“We’ll go back to the temple tomorrow and send word to Alexios,” he says. “Highlight the position he’ll put himself in if he insists on killing one of his only living Anchors.”

As long as a Devaliant is alive in Hellevig, the Shroud holds. But our family tree withers more each year, pruned by disease, bad luck, and rampant rates of madness and suicide. Dying and coming back over and over breaks us all. Two years ago, shortly after my encounter with the Wolf, my father fell on his blade in the palace forest. Sixteen months ago, Idris’ daughter jumped from a balcony.

Only the three of us remain.

“How noble,” I say. “That you’re fighting so much to make sure I’m shackled to both the altar and my husband’s bed.”

“Spare me the dramatics,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You’re not the only one who dies for the Accords.” He scoops up my discarded bracelet, turning it over in his hands. “You’d better pray Alexios can be persuaded to mercy. Now get inside and make yourself pretty for your groom.”

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