Nightborn: Totally addictive fantasy fiction (The Hollow King Book 2)

by Jessica Thorne

  ‘I really am sorry, Grace.’ He smiled gently, regretfully. ‘In another life we could truly have been friends. Maybe more than friends.’

  More than friends. Right.

  ‘In your dreams.’

  He brushed his knuckles tenderly down the side of her face and she scowled at him. ‘She’s clear.’

  ‘When you’re quite finished…’ Asher’s tone said he believed anything but.

  But the shadows didn’t let her go. The Shade’s magic clung to her, holding her still. Asher stepped in front of her, his lip curling. ‘You’ll do, I suppose.’ He opened a pot of something reddish-brown and congealed. Grace stared at it. It looked like old blood.

  Asher spat in it and circled a finger to mix it to a paste. ‘Celeste left instructions for this. I don’t know if she foresaw Aurelie’s tantrum or if she was planning to shed some of her blood. It’s the oldest form of magic, the most powerful as well. Disgusting but she usually knew what she was talking about. Hold still.’

  Grace didn’t. She tried to recoil, to fight her way free, but the shadows tightened around her, holding her firm.

  ‘Fuck you, Jehane,’ she spat. Asher laughed as he smeared the concoction over her cheeks, her eyelids and then brought his fingers up to her lips. He held them over the surface in warning.

  ‘Bite me and I’ll have them geld your friends, understand?’

  She fell still, shivering as he spread Celeste’s blood on her lips. She could taste it, salt and copper. Bile burned in her throat. Her eyes stung but she didn’t dare show it.

  She couldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  He smiled, that twisted self-satisfied smile as he finished. ‘There. Positively primal. Celeste would be delighted. She loved all things primitive. Fall in around her. If she moves one step out of line, restrain her. Jehane, keep a hold of her at all time. That won’t be hard for you, will it? Try and behave, Marchant. Aurelie is dying to see you. And she’ll love this.’

  Aurelie dying, there was a tempting proposition. Grace didn’t reply, just kept staring past him. She didn’t want to draw attention to the stiletto still holding her hair in place. Asher frowned. Irritated, she realised. She wasn’t paying attention to him, wasn’t snivelling or begging. And he really didn’t like it.

  ‘And I can’t wait to see her,’ she replied carefully and was rewarded with a twitch in the corner of Asher’s eye. She hid her smile again.

  ‘Grace, what are you—?’ Daniel began.

  ‘You’re staying here,’ Asher interrupted. ‘Surety for her good behaviour. If we have to come and fetch you you’re really going to regret it. So is Grace. Understand?’

  ‘It’s okay, Danny,’ she said softly. ‘Just look after Misha. This won’t take long.’

  The palace was silent. That was the one thing she noticed. Everywhere, fear lingered. No one laughed or raised their voice, no one wanted to draw attention to themselves. No one made eye contact, but that might just have been with her. Guilt by association was a dangerous thing, after all.

  But this place had changed. It had been bad before. It was a mausoleum now. Every corner reeked of fear.

  Aurelie had always been insecure about her power. She responded to threats with violence. With nothing now to limit her baser nature, Grace wondered how far she had gone. How many had died?

  It was her fault, her responsibility. She’d left with Bastien, instead of staying here and fighting. Well, that was over now. She was home. And, one way or the other, she was putting an end to this.

  Carefully, consciously, she sent another little wave of magic towards the collar and felt one of the sigils burn out.

  The throne room was almost unchanged from when she’d seen it last, except that Lucien Larelwynn’s sword was no longer hanging up above the throne. Bastien had destroyed it when Asher tried to use it on him. And there was only one throne here now. Aurelie sat in it, her pale blue eyes scanning the silent room. She was still beautiful, golden-haired, her spine ramrod straight, her dress even finer than the one Grace had been forced into. As Grace entered, she saw the queen’s jaw tighten and her fingers grip the arms of the throne like claws.

  Grace didn’t bow. Aurelie’s eyes narrowed.

  Someone – Jehane probably – grabbed the back of Grace’s neck and shoved her forward into a semblance of a bow.

  ‘Marchant,’ the queen said in the coolest terms imaginable.

  ‘Aurelie.’

  If the slight offended her – and Grace was sure it would – the queen held it together for now. She had Grace where she wanted her, after all.

  Slowly, Aurelie looked her up and down, her gaze lingering on her face painted with blood. ‘And what is the point of you bringing her here, Lord Kane?’

  ‘She wears the warrant, your majesty. It protects her. No one but a Larelwynn can take it from her.’

  ‘Well, we are in short supply of them. Why isn’t she dead, Asher?’

  He almost smiled. ‘She’s more valuable alive. Trust me. You want power, Aurelie. She can feed us just as Miranda did. Just as Celeste did. All you have to do is accept her.’

  Aurelie looked repulsed.

  ‘Accept Grace Marchant? As what?’

  He almost laughed, the light of a zealot in his eyes. ‘Not Grace Marchant, my love. Not any more. Our goddess. Are you ready?’

  Another sigil went out and Grace closed her eyes. How many more were there? She was almost there, almost. And if not, she still had her back-up plan.

  Asher’s voice intoned words she didn’t know, that no one could possibly know, and yet Grace recognised them somehow. Words of summoning, words of welcome, words that should never be said.

  Magic crept over her skin like ice from the warrant, crawling up her neck and face, over her scalp, threading its way through her hair, and then it was burrowing into her skull, freezing her, claiming her, turning the world dark and nightmarish. The warrant came alive again, all that power, all that darkness and emptiness. For a moment it teetered on the edge, then it surged through her in a maddening rush.

  Blood burned like acid on her skin, Celeste’s blood, triggered by the influx of power.

  Grace couldn’t help herself. She threw back her head and screamed.

  At her throat, the last remaining sigil flared in incandescence and burned out. And the darkness rushed through her like a hurricane.

  Chapter 31

  Rathlynn had changed. Bastien sensed it the moment they entered the gates. Eyes watched them as they passed, gazes suspicious and hostile. He wore his hood pulled up, but even so he wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t be recognised. Or that he hadn’t been already. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being followed. It wasn’t like the homecoming he might have expected. He was sneaking into the capital city of the kingdom he should be ruling. No one came to greet them and no one would miss them if they left.

  Grace would though. He couldn’t leave without her. And she had to be here. Where else would Asher take her? The palace, or the Temple, one or the other, to Aurelie or to Celeste.

  Ellyn led the way unerringly. She knew the streets of Rathlynn better than he did. Rynn followed, a little bedraggled and less princess-like than he had ever seen her. But she didn’t seem unhappy about it. If anything she seemed more driven than ever before. Something had happened between the two women, he knew that. They worked as one now. And his so-called wife hadn’t looked at him for more than a second since they’d escaped the cave. Her eyes were only for the self-confessed Valenti water rat, who had royal blood flowing in her veins.

  He’d once told Grace they weren’t missing any princesses. He’d been wrong. They didn’t count the ones born to other royal houses.

  A grave oversight.

  There was a public stable not far from the main gates and Ellyn handed over the horses there. Whatever she said to the stable boys, they didn’t demand payment, just nodded and took the reins from each of them.

  ‘We’ll have to walk the rest of the way,’ she said. ‘Riding thro
ugh Rathlynn just attracts attention, especially where we’re going.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Rynn asked, trying to keep from staring at everything around her. Even the straw and horseshit on the ground. She’d never seen anything like it. Certainly not in gleaming, beautiful Iliz.

  Ellyn glanced around them to make sure no one was too close.

  ‘Eastferry first,’ she replied. ‘And then… they said they saw the general coming through early this morning. We’re not too far behind them. There’s still hope.’

  ‘Eastferry then,’ Bastien said. He could guess where. There was only one place.

  ‘I hope you like omelettes,’ Ellyn said to Rynn. She grinned wickedly, her recklessness almost infectious. But Rynn just looked bewildered.

  They kept their heads down as they crossed the city, reaching Eastferry within the hour, and word obviously went ahead that they were coming. Bastien could feel the eyes from windows and laneways following them as they approached. The overhanging upper floors of the timber houses didn’t offer any shelter. By the time they plunged into the deepest parts of Eastferry, they were being shadowed by about five different people.

  ‘Seven,’ said Ellyn, when Bastien whispered as much to her. ‘I think I know four of them though.’

  She probably did, he realised. She looked comfortable here, with her smooth gait and her easy, relaxed gaze. Nothing seemed to faze her. She was home.

  The Larks’ Rest looked much as he remembered. A few more people hanging around outside and, inside, the paint more ragged and the smell worse, but otherwise it hadn’t changed. Every eye in the place was on them the instant they entered and Rynn shrank back behind them, as if she could hide.

  But there was no hiding in here.

  ‘Ellyn?’ Kurt Parry came straight for them, a terrifying prospect in any other circumstances. The man was a ruthless killer, a criminal and a thug, as close to a king in his small world as Bastien had ever been in his. But the concern on his face was such that there was no doubt that he had heard what had happened. Or some of it. ‘Thank all the glories. We feared the worst.’

  Ellyn didn’t waste time with explanations. ‘We’ve got to get into the palace, Kurt.’

  ‘I know. We’re already making plans, I promise. But you need to rest. Look at you.’

  They looked dead on their feet, Bastien knew that. ‘We can’t wait here and—’

  Kurt cut him off. ‘You’re meant to be dead, I believe? That’s what Asher announced anyway. Look, my brother is in there too. And I know they’re using him against Grace, so he’s more likely to get killed than the Duchess. So back down, Larelwynn.’

  It was like a bucket of cold water drenching him. Bastien didn’t know what to say. Luckily Rynn was there.

  ‘Everyone’s on edge, and with those we love in danger, no one wants to hesitate.’ She rested her hand on Bastien’s arm. ‘But he’s right. We can’t charge in blindly.’

  ‘You’re not charging anywhere at all, Rynn,’ Ellyn said firmly. ‘You’re staying here. Where it’s safe.’

  Rynn glanced around the inn, its murky corners, the bar with the dubious bottles of alcohol, the seedy stairway leading up to seedier bedrooms, and then back at Ellyn. ‘Safe. Here.’

  ‘Nowhere safer in the city,’ Ellyn assured her, with an indulgent smile.

  ‘Either we have very different definitions of safe or this city is in more trouble than I thought.’

  ‘And who is this?’ Kurt asked. Whether he was affronted by her comments on his city or insulted by her reaction to his inn, he wasn’t looking happy.

  Ellyn choked. There was no other word for it.

  ‘Princess Rynn Elenore Layna de Valens of Gellen, fifth child of King Roderick of the Valenti,’ Rynn said, holding out her hand to him. To everyone’s surprise, Kurt took her hand and kissed it with all the grace of a courtier.

  ‘Your highness. I believe congratulations are in order.’ He smirked up at Bastien and it was his turn to go a mortified shade of burning red. Trust Kurt. He was loving every minute of this. ‘And what does the Duchess have to say about this, my Lord of Thorns?’

  ‘The duchess?’ Rynn asked. ‘What duchess?’

  Ellyn took her arm, leading her aside. ‘He means Grace. It’s a joke. They’re old friends. Kind of. He’s Danny’s brother.’

  Rynn still looked perplexed. ‘Have I said something wrong?’

  Ellyn shook her head fondly. ‘No, love. It’s just—’

  ‘Ellyn and your new bride?’ Bastien glared at him and Kurt smirked. ‘That’s awkward. She’s a fast mover.’

  Bastien didn’t dare to ask which one Kurt meant. Parry was enjoying this, Bastien realised. Every barbed word and snide remark. And every glare or affronted silence was just going to make him worse. Kurt Parry talking to him like this was almost friendly.

  ‘Are we going to keep this up or are we going to rescue them?’ Bastien asked at last.

  Kurt shook his head. ‘I never thought you’d be back here. And I don’t think you should be here either. You’re a danger to our people, aren’t you? If Aurelie gets her hands on you again—’

  ‘She won’t.’

  ‘I’ll see to that for you, if you want.’ It wasn’t a promise, it was a threat. And at the same time…

  ‘See that you do.’

  Kurt nodded and some kind of tension seemed to evaporate between them.

  ‘Like I said, plans are in place. You can join us. I admit, you could be useful. But don’t get in the way, your majesty.’

  He didn’t even sound sarcastic when he said it. That was as close to respectful as he’d get from Kurt Parry, Bastien knew that. All the same, those two words made his heart drop. He wasn’t here for the crown. Only Grace mattered now.

  A circumspect knock on the door jerked Bastien out of a nightmare-infected doze. In his dreams, Grace battled the Hollow King on the edge of the Maegen pool. And in them, she was not winning.

  ‘Enter,’ he said, straightening up in the chair. The meal on the table was cold now, a congealed stew that had seen better days to begin with. He didn’t want to ask what the meat portion of it actually was; he was pretty sure he wouldn’t like the answer. The room smelled heavily of stale perfume. But he had at least been alone. For a while.

  He could almost breathe. But when he did, he thought of Grace imprisoned, so near and so far away. His chest contracted as if bound by steel bars.

  The door opened to an older man, broad-shouldered and silver-haired, his face haggard in that way only someone who had seen torture could be. He had an ancient leather collar around his neck and, when Bastien stood to greet him, he bowed.

  ‘Your majesty,’ he said. ‘It is my honour to serve.’

  Bastien swallowed. He didn’t deserve any of this, not the title or the service. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I am Master Atelier Zavi Millan, lately of the Academy.’

  Bastien’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Grace spoke of you often.’

  Zavi’s smile was brief and fleeting. ‘She is the best of us, that girl. I could do with your help, if you will give it?’

  ‘Of course,’ Bastien said. It had to be better than being cooped up in here, waiting until Kurt Parry did whatever he was planning to do.

  ‘Come then,’ said the Atelier. He led Bastien down the stairs to the main taproom, where all eyes turned on him and every gaze followed him hungrily. Down they went again, into the cellars and down again to the secret chambers beneath. He and Grace had hidden there once. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  The corridor and the rooms off it had changed, no longer a hiding place but a workshop, every wall shelved and stacked high with endless things. A workbench dominated the centre, and spread over it was a variety of sigils, each one beautiful and powerful, the work of a master.

  ‘It’s not ideal,’ said the old man. ‘I have to send to the blacksmith for some of the work. There’s no forge down here, although I have a few kilns which almost do the job. We’ve cobbled to
gether what we could from the various treasures of—’

  Bastien paused, staring at a necklace made of silver and starstones. He knew it, knew it of old. It had belonged to the youngest sister of King Riah, a powerful mageborn in her own right. ‘—Treasures of the royal palace,’ he finished, picking it up and turning it over. ‘Kurt Parry has been busy.’

  ‘We all have, my lord. There was little else we could do. It was that, or give up and die.’

  Bastien laid the necklace down again. The tales said it was cursed, but he presumed Zavi knew that. He’d already prised one of the starstones from it. Now it graced a sigil lying in the middle of the workbench.

  ‘You’ll use them all?’

  ‘Their power is formidable. We need them, and their like, to defeat the nightborn, to bind them, or to drive the darkness from them. Sigils, and weapons. During the Magewar—’

  ‘Such things were used, yes.’

  He knew far too much for Bastien’s comfort. But then, you didn’t get to be a master Atelier as renowned as Zavi Millan without finding out more than a few secrets along the way.

  ‘Parry has asked me to arm his people against the nightborn. Do I… do I have your blessing?’

  Bastien knew what Zavi was asking. If they used the sigils and Zavi’s other creations, so many mageborn could die. Just like on Iliz. Nightborn, yes, but what were they but mageborn first? They were still his people, the ones he had failed. And now he had no magic to help them, not any more.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bastien, even though it broke his heart to do so. There was no other way.

  The Master Atelier fetched a long case from a shelf and set it on the table, opening it to reveal a sword. It was made of a curious, dark grey metal which Bastien recognised at once. It had been bigger, of course, so long ago. A ridiculous thing, oversized, far too long for the man… no, the boy, who had carried it. Lucien had never been a swordsman. He had struggled to lift the Godslayer sword in its original form. But this was the sword that they told the world stopped the Hollow King. Bastien knew now that was not true. It was a symbol of kingship and once it had hung over Marius’s throne, until Asher had tried to kill Bastien and Grace with it. Filled with the power of the Hollow King, Bastien had crushed it.