But still, it had power. Unlike him.
He lifted it reverently. Now it was smaller, lighter, a more elegant blade.
‘The Godslayer,’ he said, naming it and knowing it. The Atelier took one of the starstones from its setting and waited until Bastien presented the hilt to him. He positioned it on the pommel. Light flared beneath his hand as he pressed it into the metal and the hum of magic filled the air, rippling down the blade. Bastien felt it in his bones, but magic was like an alien thing to him now. His heart ached with loss for his powers which seemed to be gone forever. Zavi released it.
‘It will serve you now,’ said the Atelier. ‘Protect you. The sword of the king. Do you understand?’
‘I’m not the king. I can’t be.’
‘Yes, Bastien Larelwynn. You can. Now you are no longer mageborn.’
So the old man knew about his lack of magic.
‘And what if I don’t want to be?’
Zavi smiled, a soft, sad smile. ‘I don’t think kings get to choose. It’s one of the few areas where you’re as bound as any man. I have another… not a gift, not really, but…’ He held out his hand. In it was a sigil, the likes of which Bastien had only seen once before. It was intricate and beautiful, more skilful than any he had seen produced by a lesser hand. It even made those on the workbench, those powered by ancient artefacts of rare power, pale in comparison. It was made of the Godslayer too, parts of it. And other things. Each element was familiar, and yet completely new. The patterns of the etchings and the way the metal shimmered made his eyes hunger to keep looking at it. The components making it up drew the eye in and held all his attention effortlessly. It was a work of art. It was like looking at the Maegen itself.
‘It’s more than just a sigil…’ he murmured.
‘I sometimes see what is needed. Not why, not how, but I know what must be made. You need this one, my Lord of Thorns. And I fear… I fear I know how you will have to use it.’ Zavi frowned and looked down at his work again. At any moment Bastien thought he might close his hand over it and snatch it back. And Bastien wished he would. The power ingrained in the sigil was so great, and it felt… so very final. ‘It will contain her. I think.’
And the sword… the sword could kill anything. Even a god. Or a goddess.
Bastien bit his lower lip hard, forcing himself to stay silent. He wanted to tell the old man no, that he wouldn’t take them, that he would never use that sigil on Grace and how could he suggest such a thing. But knowledge like his was a gift from the divine, a manifestation of the Maegen itself working through a mortal mind.
And if it was too late, for the good of all, how could he fail to act? She would never forgive him if he failed. He could picture the sidelong look, the glare.
He took the sigil. It felt so very warm in his hand and he closed his fingers over it. The edges bit into his flesh.
‘My thanks, Master Atelier,’ Bastien said and bowed. It was all he could offer.
‘I remember you,’ Zavi said. ‘And your father before you. You’re a better man, I think, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
Bastien drew in a breath. The man Zavi remembered as his father was just him in another life, before the Larelwynn royal family had wiped his memory and lied about his identity. Not only to him, he now realised. To his people as well.
‘We all strive to be better than that which came before us,’ he said. It was an old adage, one which was rarely used these days, but the Atelier nodded sagely.
Then he looked down at Bastien’s hand clenched around the sigil again. His face was strained.
‘Try not to hurt her, my lord,’ he said, and turned abruptly away.
Bastien didn’t have the guts to tell him that it was already too late for that.
There were far more people in the inn when he and Zavi emerged from the cellars. People outside too, people gathered around the doors and windows, peering in. The moment Bastien entered the hall and stopped in the doorway to the taproom, conversation fell silent and every eye turned on him.
Ellyn stood up from the table where she’d been sitting with Rynn and Kurt. She bowed to Bastien and he felt all the blood drain from his head at the gesture.
‘There’s no way to avoid this, is there?’ Bastien murmured to the Atelier.
‘Not really, my lord,’ Zavi said softly. ‘All the city knows you’re here. And they want to follow you. Why wouldn’t they?’
He could think of at least a dozen reasons right away. Most of them he couldn’t or wouldn’t share.
‘A few months ago they were terrified of me. They thought I was a monster.’
‘Some of them. Not all of them. And sometimes we need our monsters.’
He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want anyone to follow him and he didn’t want to be a monster. He never had. He just wanted to get Grace back, unharmed and unscathed.
‘Monsters won’t help, Master Atelier. There are more than enough monsters up in the palace.’
There were murmurs of agreement, whispers and a soft laugh or two. Bastien had been speaking quietly but in the hushed room, with all attention on him, they’d heard him nonetheless.
Kurt narrowed his eyes, watching, taking in everything. Calculating.
Bastien steeled himself and walked to their table. Some people bowed as he passed. Some of them didn’t bother to get up but they were fewer. It didn’t matter, he told himself. Whether they wanted him as a king or not… it didn’t matter. Only Grace mattered.
As he passed the mood changed. From respect and speculation, to awe. The sword, he realised. They saw the sword strapped across his back. They saw the starstone glimmering in the hilt. What they saw marked him.
He carried Godslayer, Lucien Larelwynn’s sword.
He sat down, shifting the sword to one side, and faced Kurt, his second Melia, and Ellyn. Rynn grinned at him.
‘Scarlet?’ Kurt said, breaking the silence and addressing the woman behind the bar. ‘Would you fetch us some wine? Or whatever you want, your majesty. We lifted it from your wine cellars so you might as well drink some of it with us.’
It was like he went out of his way to provoke outrage, like he couldn’t help himself. Maybe he couldn’t. Bastien knew better than to rise to it.
‘That sounds fair. But maybe later. I can’t wait here, Kurt. Not any longer. I need to go to the palace. This has to be stopped.’
‘You only want to find Grace. What if they’ve killed her already?’
Then he’d get revenge. But it couldn’t come to that. He wouldn’t let it.
‘The same could be said for your brother. They took him too.’
Kurt glared at him. ‘Attacking the palace now is suicide. This whole city is designed with it as the heart. Believe me, I’ve thought about it. There are some ways in, sure, but they’re too small and too dangerous for the numbers we’d need. The only other way in without someone inside is through the main gates and they’re locked tight now. Attack them and the whole Royal Promenade becomes a killing ground.’
Bastien grinned, humourlessly. ‘We can open those gates for you, Kurt. I know the palace like the back of my hand.’
‘And you’ll just let us in? All of us? All the scum of Rathlynn to pillage our way through your home?’
But Bastien shook his head. ‘All the people of Rathlynn, if they want. It’s not my home. Never was. Well? Will you help me?’
‘Me?’
‘They’ll follow you, Kurt. You and Ellyn. They know you, trust you. You won’t get them killed. I’m… I’m a Larelwynn. It’s more or less all we do.’
Kurt stared at him like he was mad. Perhaps he was.
Ellyn fixed him with as stubborn a look as Grace ever wore. ‘You aren’t going without me, Bastien. My people are in there.’
There was no arguing with her. He knew that right away. ‘Fine then,’ he replied.
She looked startled. ‘Really? I was expecting more of an argument. Right then. What do you have in mind, your maje
sty?’
He really wished she hadn’t called him that, not with so many of the Rathlynnese listening. But there was nothing he could do about it now.
Bastien set off as the Vigil bells chimed out, echoing across the rooftops, Ellyn by his side. The city was silent as a graveyard. No one stirred. Rathlynn was trapped in the grip of terror and it came from both the nightborn and the palace, from those who ruled and those who lived among them.
After Iliz and its constant parties, the quiet was unnerving. It reminded him of Thorndale – dead and empty. The sword was a strange sort of comfort, as was the sigil from Zavi. But his magic still eluded him and, for the first time in all his supernaturally long life, Bastien felt truly vulnerable. The entrance to the Rats’ Path was still intact, still hidden, and they slipped inside, ghosts on the ancient stone steps.
‘Follow me,’ he told Ellyn.
‘The others will be waiting. We don’t have much time.’
‘I know. And we’ll do our part. But, Ellyn… once we’ve dealt with the gate…’
A smile flickered over her lips. ‘You’re heading on in, aren’t you? Going after Grace on your own.’
‘I can’t risk waiting.’
He wasn’t surprised when she shrugged. ‘Well then. No plan after all. There’s a surprise. You two are more alike than you know.’
He tried to take it as a compliment.
Once inside the palace complex he knew the way like he knew the veins in his own body. Bastien had lived endless lifetimes here and now he could remember them. All of them. They didn’t make for comforting memories, but at least he could make his way through the quickest and most obscure route up through the underground levels. Kurt had wanted to send more people with him but Bastien had refused. Just Ellyn, because he trusted her. And because too many feet down here would make too much noise. And maybe, just maybe, there was still some sort of loyalty left in him to this place and its secrets. Even if it was only a survival instinct, he didn’t want Kurt Parry to know all his secrets.
They encountered no one on the lower levels. The palace was like a mausoleum. It always had been. It wasn’t until they were almost on the ground level, near the old gatehouse, that they ran into a small patrol.
Ellyn brought her hand up in a swift signal, then stepped out in full view before he could stop her. She was brazen, reckless, but he had to admit, if she wanted to throw them off, she was doing her job.
‘Hey there, I’m a bit lost. Which way to the crazy queen?’
Bastien launched himself at them. There was no magic at his disposal, no quick and easy way to deal with this. He had never had to fight, not really, not when it truly meant something. His blood pounded in his ears and his limbs burned as he attacked. Ellyn twisted by him, her swords moving faster than he could follow, a technique he could never hope to match. But the Godslayer felt at home in his hands, like an extension of himself. It wasn’t magic, not in the way he knew it. This was something else.
What followed was a blur; brutal, bloody. He’d trained with the sword alongside the Larelwynn kings and princes. They were probably testing themselves rather than him. It must have been a thrill, fighting an immortal, a being that was the key to their power and could destroy them in an instant if he so desired. They used him. All his long life or lives or however you numbered it. They used him.
Suddenly there was no one left to fight. He stopped, breathing hard, standing over the corpses.
‘You okay?’ Ellyn asked. She didn’t even seem tired. She wiped her swords on one of the bodies with swift and ruthless efficiency before she sheathed them once more. ‘Find out where they are?’
One guard was still breathing – one of hers – a young man, huddled against the wall, bleeding, traumatised. Bastien hauled him up.
‘Where is she? Grace Marchant? The prisoners?’
The man stared at him like he was dazed. Perhaps he was. ‘Prince… Prince Bastien?’
He shook him hard. ‘Answer me.’
‘The queen ordered the woman brought to the throne room. The others…’ Don’t be dead. Please divinities and glories, don’t be dead… ‘They’re locked up in the tower under guard. Your tower. Your rooms. Please… please don’t…’
The sound of the guard’s begging made Bastien’s stomach drop. He sounded terrified. His eyes darted frantically to the bodies of his comrades.
Bastien knocked him out with his hilt and watched him fall. He’d be okay. He hoped.
Daniel and Misha were safe for the moment. If Ellyn went now, she could rescue them before anything else happened. Whereas Grace… If Aurelie had her, he could be too late already.
‘You want to split up,’ Ellyn said before he could say a word. ‘You know that’s a terrible idea, right? It never works out well.’
She was right. He knew that. But it didn’t change anything.
‘The gates first,’ he replied. ‘Then you go for Daniel and Misha while I get to the throne room. If you can make it back to me, I’d appreciate the reinforcements but if you need to get them out, get them out.’ She didn’t even argue.
The gatehouse was up another level, and it was deserted. That didn’t bode well. At the same time, he felt a wave of relief.
‘Are you okay?’ Ellyn asked.
‘Yes. There’s no one here.’
‘Lucky for us. Better for them.’ Ellyn had no qualms about taking a life when she needed to, he knew that.
The mechanism controlling the gates was locked but that hardly seemed to matter at all to Ellyn. The limiter on the machinery obediently snapped open.
Bastien gazed down into the city. There were lights starting up all over Rathlynn, torches, fires, rallying points. A mob or a citizens’ army… only time would tell.
‘They’re coming,’ he said.
Ellyn stared at him, wisps of her white-blonde hair ghosting around her sculpted Larelwynn face. He could see the resemblance now, in those planes and angles, in the structure beneath her skin. Her eyes might be that soft grey, but they had the same steely determination in them. Deep down, she was a Larelwynn to the core.
‘The people in Rathlynn are starving,’ she said. ‘That’s not exactly new but Aurelie has made it worse. There’s a lot of pent-up anger, and you know they’ll want to take that out on this place and anyone they find here. Some of them might want you back, might want a king, but not all of them. Not by any means. Bastien… I don’t know if Kurt has a hope of containing them.’
‘We’ll have to hope he does, won’t we? Stay safe, Ellyn. Rynn needs you.’
She nodded, just once. Then she held out her hand. He took it and she pulled him into an embrace. It was unexpectedly comforting. It shouldn’t be. Ellyn was hard as nails, a fighter. He’d never appreciated such a gesture before.
They parted, not knowing if they’d see each other again, Ellyn heading for his tower to rescue Daniel and Misha, and Bastien faced with finding his own path.
He couldn’t rely on his rage to carry him through. Although the sword might help – it seemed to be working on his stamina and strength in ways he couldn’t define. It had been made before, before he’d been the Hollow King. The memories of who had made this sword and why were lost in those memories of the boy he’d once been, the boy who had died. But Bastien could feel the magic in it, older than Rathlynn, perhaps older than Thorndale. Godslayer. But what god?
He pushed that thought away.
He couldn’t just sprint for the throne room. The great staircase, the wide corridors… they would be guarded. Although his fears that the palace would be swarming with guards had been unfounded – Kurt would have a free run to the gates. But the rest of the guards had to be somewhere. Waiting.
Servants’ stairs, antechambers and one way, one path within the palace that only the royal family knew.
The Larelwynns had kept their secrets close. And if Bastien was their greatest secret, the passageway into the throne room was probably second.
The few guards he encountered on t
he way died or scattered. He was still the Lord of Thorns here, still the nightmare behind the throne. No one wanted to take him on. He might not want to kill, but he wanted to live more. Needed to live. Needed to reach Grace.
The secret passage opened for him like an old friend. His hands shook as he stepped into the darkness. The steps were narrow, functional and steep. The air was thick with dust and clogged with cobwebs. He forced his way through. The door at the top formed an outline of light, a glowing frame. Beyond it he heard a scream. Grace’s scream. It triggered something suicidal in his brain.
Stealth forgotten, he burst through the door.
Grace stood in the middle of the throne room, aglow with the cold light of the Deep Dark. Someone had daubed ancient symbols on her face in old blood. Bastien’s memory stirred, giving them names and meanings, words in a forgotten tongue, the language of dead divinities. Terrible words with terrible meanings. Celeste knew those words, and he had once. Words of power, words of binding, words of ownership.
What had they done to her? What were they trying to do?
Around her throat a collar made of sigils bound her and she seemed frozen there, standing before Aurelie, Asher and Jehane Alvaran. Bastien had worn such a collar himself once, powerful enough to hold a god. Ultimately, not for very long.
Now all but one of the sigils were dark, and the remaining one glowed brightly, almost blinding in its intensity. Grace shuddered, her whole body reacting to something he couldn’t see. But he knew what it was.
Slowly she seemed to regain her control and she stretched out her arms to either side and turned in a circle, like a girl before a ball, trying out a new gown, something Grace herself would never do. When she saw him, she smiled.
But it was not her smile.
‘Bastien Larelwynn,’ she said, her voice filled with strange harmonies and unnatural whispers beneath the surface of it. It jarred against all his senses and his blood turned ice cold. He knew that voice, knew it too well. And it was not Grace’s. ‘It is so good of you to join us. We’ve been waiting.’
Nightborn: Totally addictive fantasy fiction (The Hollow King Book 2) Page 29
