by E G Stone
She had her hands deep in the pack, rummaging through the rough fabric, when Ravenna felt something sharp press in the centre of her back where her bruise bloomed. She froze. Another point touched her throat.
Ravenna turned her head to see one of the tan males, his hair short and a horrid scar running along his cheek, sneering down at her with a long dagger in his hand. The other end was just under her chin. He growled something and Ravenna risked a quick glance towards the others. The light skinned one had a pointed arrow trained on her. The dark skinned one held a rope weighted on each end with a metal ball.
Ravenna dropped the pack and rose to her feet before they could stop her. She was about to strike out with a leg, an arm, a wing, when the long dagger cut across Ravenna’s arm. She let out a cry.
“Don’t,” the scarred male said. She understood that much. Ravenna pulled her wings in close, terror making her heart beat faster, making sweat pool at the base of her spine. She lifted her hands in surrender, blood slipping down her cut arm. The dark-skinned male lunged forwards and wrapped the rope around her hands before she could protest.
The fear Ravenna had felt earlier gave way to something she had not felt since she was a child pulling out her own feathers. Despair. Given the blood dripping down her arm and her bound wrists, already chafing under the tight rope, Ravenna was certain of one thing:
Humans were as dangerous and terrible as the stories had led her to believe. And now she was their prisoner.
Chapter Three
Davorin rode his horse with his back straight, expression suitably grim. His short hair had been neatly trimmed and he had shaved so his tan skin was smooth. Coupled with the black shirt embroidered with gold and copper threads in some suitably impressive pattern, Davorin looked every bit the Prince of the Empire. He even had finery on his weapons, normally carried to be practical, not beautiful. But in the last processional displaying the coffin that carried his brother’s body, it was imperative that he looked his best.
Besides, the seven-month mourning period was almost over. Just this last parade through the streets of the capital city, Mardego, and life could get on as it should. Davorin would take control of his brother’s armies and would make the Empire great. Surely his father would approve of such a motion, now that Davorin was the only son left.
“My dear Davorin, you look as though someone put a burr in your breeches,” a woman purred, gilded metal and fabric adorning every inch of her as she sat just as straight as Davorin on her black horse.
“Sister,” Davorin said, dipping his head slightly to acknowledge Seraphina. She tossed her head, her ridiculous beaded headdress jingling with the motions. It covered the top of her wavy brown hair, the rest of the locks hanging down her back, the tips either tied off with beads or wrapped in gild of silver and gold. Frankly, Davorin was amazed that she could sit up straight with that much weight on her head. But it was her prerogative, as wife to the Warlord Baldur, Independent Lord of Southron—the land that a collection of loosely allied tribes called a kingdom—directly south of the Empire. Southron had managed to avoid being annexed into the Empire by virtue of the fact that the various tribes’ armies almost matched the might of the Empire. Almost. That and Seraphina would not allow her husband’s home to be claimed.
“What will it take to get you to laugh?” Seraphina asked, tapping her fingers against the reins. They were tipped with wrought claws, delicate and whorled and probably far more dangerous than they looked.
“More than you, flashing in the sun,” Davorin said, giving his sister a slight smile. He had always liked Seraphina. She was as ambitious as he was, but more cunning. And she had never bothered to contest his desire to lead the Empire, instead wooing and trapping Baldur in marriage. Davorin still pitied the man.
“Oh, please,” Seraphina shook her head. “This is all for show. So those desperate people watching us march past will have something to talk about and awe over, rather than the fact that the heir to the Empire is dead and the economy is in tatters as a result.”
Davorin rolled his eyes. “Former heir,” he corrected. “And the mourning period is almost over. It’s not like they haven’t been aware of Dagan’s death for months.”
“Yes.” Seraphina tilted her head like a watchful falcon. “But before now, they didn’t have the coffin paraded before them like some gruesome relic.”
Davorin kept silent, though he was inclined to agree. When a member of the royal family died, it was tradition to parade their body through every major city of the Empire, making certain that the people not only knew of the death but also of the might and wealth of the Empire. To suspend almost all normal activities for the amount of time it took to orchestrate every parade showed a great power—or a great stupidity and carelessness. Frankly, Davorin thought it the latter.
Then, Davorin had been the one to kill Dagan.
“I think it interesting how difficult this has been for poor father,” Seraphina said after a moment of prolonged contemplation. She grinned a fox smile at the sideways glance Davorin threw her. He wanted to curl his lip and leave her to her conniving. Surely, she could tempt her husband into conversation. Davorin just wanted to get to the Mardego palace and move on to the final feast, a last celebration of the dead. It was to be one of the most impressive displays of wealth the people would ever see. Meat on every table. Wine and ale flowing. And it was there that Davorin would announce his intentions to his father.
“We all know Dagan was his favourite,” Davorin allowed the words to fall from his tongue, though he regretted them almost immediately. Seraphina laughed, the sound tinkling as much as her metal accoutrements did. The subjects on either side of the cobbled path looked a little alarmed. Davorin curled his lip and looked away from their shabbiness. They were a bane on the image of the Empire. He intended to fix that.
“Who else would revel in brutality like Dagan?” Seraphina asked with a smile. “Who else would lead the armies to expand the borders of the Empire almost to the whispering Iron Mountains and the Red Desert? Dagan was a very capable, loud, bloodthirsty, blunt instrument to further the Empire’s glory without caring about the cost. I think he probably skipped out on lessons of trade and politics to go practise at fighting three times a week.”
Davorin inclined his head. She was not wrong. Dagan had never bothered with lessons and books, thinking them a waste of time when it was obvious his skills lay in fighting, as did the future glory of the Empire. Dagan had only ever been interested in the stories of dragons and magic and battles of the past.
Davorin, on the other hand, had gladly spent as much time devouring books as he did practicing to fight. He was not quite the warrior that Dagan was, but he also did not need to bathe in the blood of his enemies. He was perfectly content to starve them out and walk in after they were all dead.
“It doesn’t matter,” Davorin said. “Father will have to get on with the normal business of the Empire. And he will need me to do that.”
“Indeed?” Seraphina crooned, running her claw-tipped fingers through the black mane of her horse. It tossed its head and Seraphina comforted it with more gentleness than Davorin had ever seen from her. She turned back to him. “Father is completely distraught over the loss of his firstborn son. I have heard that he was bemoaning the fact that there would be no one left to work for the future of the Empire. After all, I am married to the Lord of Southron. And you… well.” Seraphina smiled.
Davorin frowned. “I will work for the Empire just as well as Dagan. More successfully, even, as I won’t need to conquer every mewling peasant in my path. The fool was already stretching our resources to their limits, the way he carried on wasting soldiers and supplies on the most insignificant of causes. Not to mention every person in the conquered lands hated him, rather than seeing the Empire as the benevolent force it is. If he had continued the way he was, he would have done more harm than good in the end.”
“Is that why you killed him?” Seraphina asked. Davorin jerked and his hor
se snorted, pulling forwards and almost kicking a bystander. Davorin yanked the reins back and managed to get his horse under control. Barely.
“Why would you think I did it?” Davorin ground out, jaw stiff. He glared at the coffin a hundred steps before him, the distance meant to impress some sort of message on the people. That the dead Dagan was still so much more than Davorin or Seraphina could ever be. Davorin had been careful to maintain that distance for seven months. This was the last time, he promised himself. Soon, everyone would see his worth. His father would see his worth.
“Of course it was you, brother,” Seraphina let out a glinting laugh to match her finery, earning another set of shocked looks from the people standing on either side of the street, their expressions of grief carefully schooled. Seraphina glanced sideways at her stiff-backed brother riding beside her. “His death was brutal and unsubtle. Who else would it be—that girl Dagan was found with? Ha!”
Davorin did not answer. He clenched his jaw tighter and kicked his heel into the flanks of his horse. Seraphina’s cruel smile followed him as he made his way through the distance that separated him from the coffin until he was riding directly behind it. A statement that Davorin had not intended to make until later. He was not worried about that. He was more worried about what Seraphina might say or do. She would wait, though. She would wait until it suited her to whisper a word into the right ear. Until then, she would hold the knowledge over his head.
Davorin needed more than his father’s army now. He needed his father’s complete and utter approval, or his life would come to a premature end. Just like Dagan.
The wine and ale were indeed flowing. Those who had been fortunate enough to receive an invitation to the palace for celebrations were eagerly feasting on the food provided by the Empire. Meat, potatoes, vegetables, even fruit stewed in brandy and sugar, were all being consumed voraciously. People talked and laughed and only glanced up occasionally to see if the Emperor was taking offence. The mourning period was over, after all.
Davorin watched all of this from his table in the corner of the great hall. He did his best to control the sneer on his face. The nobility were trying to curry favour with his father, either stepping up to the throne for a few whispered words or speaking loudly from the tables in the hopes that he would hear. They wore their best finery and looked down their noses at anyone they deemed lesser.
Seraphina had abandoned Davorin in favour of her husband. The Southrons were all sitting at a table together, easily distinguishable by their ostentatious display of wealth and, in the case of Baldur and his warriors, the conspicuous number of weapons they wore. Seraphina’s hand was resting on the darker hand of her husband, watching him and those around him with a calculating eye. Personally, Davorin thought that Baldur was a fool for not seeing the way his wife manipulated and prodded people to do her bidding. He was a big brute of a man, muscles bulging in obtuse lines, his jaw square and hard, eyes flashing in anger more than intelligence. He was an effective Lord of Southron.
He was also the public face of Davorin’s current competition.
Finally, finally, the Emperor was alone. He was an old man, stooped with age, and bitter with power. Davorin did not know how much longer the man would live, but he needed the Emperor alive. Davorin needed his approval. Needed to be publicly named heir, given control of the armies and the Empire’s resources or he would not make it far beyond Seraphina’s vengeful blade.
Davorin stood and walked over to the Emperor’s throne, pulling the sword out of the sheath on his hip as he did so. The entire great hall fell silent, tense. The Emperor straightened his narrow shoulders. His bony fingers tightened on the arms of the stone throne carved into the shape of creatures from a bygone age. The slight shift in the Emperor’s gaze gave Davorin pause. Did the old man really think that Davorin would be so stupid as to kill him?
Swallowing the unspoken insult, Davorin knelt on one knee before the throne, the point of his sword resting in the cracks between the stones. He touched his head to the gold-worked handle, the edges pressing into his skin. “Father, I come to you beseeching.”
The Emperor wrinkled his nose at the traditional words. But he raised an imperious hand and held it over the head of his kneeling son. Davorin stifled his grin. “Ask,” the Emperor said, voice hoarse with age.
Davorin lifted his head but otherwise did not move. He looked straight into his father’s eyes and spoke the words he had rehearsed long before killing Dagan. “I wish to convey my horror at the sorrow that has befallen the Empire. I wish to swear that it be righted. I cannot bring my brother,” Davorin allowed his voice to crack at the word before continuing, “back from the dead. But I can do my best to take his place. With your leave, I will take charge of the armies and resources that Dagan commanded, and I will fight to continue the glory of the Empire. I will rebuild our economy. I will make the Salusian Empire a name never to be forgotten. I will do everything in my power to bring honour to your name and to be worthy as a Prince of the Empire.”
Davorin’s words echoed on the stone of the great hall. Hushed murmurs followed. Davorin imagined Seraphina watching him with her usual calculating expression. He hoped that she was grinding her jaw in frustration. But he dared not look away from the Emperor’s steel gaze.
The Emperor made no immediate movement. When the silence had become unbearably tense, he finally curled his lip.
Davorin’s heart stopped. No. No, his father would not be so heartless. Davorin had never been favoured as a child, being the second born, but he was far from incapable. Dagan was gone! It should not matter!
The Emperor broke Davorin’s gaze and the floor fell from beneath his feet. The old man smacked his lips twice before frowning and glaring at his son. “No one can replace Dagan.”
Desperate, Davorin insisted, “Father, I only ask for what is rightfully mine—”
“No!” the Emperor slammed his fist on the throne, a tiny chip from the delicate carvings falling to the ground. “You were never as capable as Dagan! You will never be Dagan! And you will not have control of the armies of the Empire. You will never be heir. Go back to your scheming, Davorin. You have your estates and your money. Let that be enough.”
If he had not practised self-control for so many years, Davorin would have run his father through right there. Instead, he swallowed back the anger and bruised pride. He ignored the prick of tears at the corner of his eyes. And he rose, sheathing his sword at his side. Davorin bowed to his father, a hollow having opened up deep in the pit of his stomach. The one thing he needed was to be confirmed as heir and his father had refused.
“As it pleases you, Father,” Davorin said, loud enough for the rest of the great hall to hear. “I can only hope to make you proud.”
Davorin straightened and strode down the steps, back to his table and his goblet of wine. He refused to let his emotions show. Had Dagan been so publicly humiliated, he would have railed against the world and shouted at anyone who dared to look at him askance. Dagan would have drawn his blade and sliced off the head of the person closest to him. Dagan would have killed the Emperor and demanded the throne. Davorin was not Dagan.
Davorin wanted nothing more than to stride out of the room and run his sword through something. He wanted to plot revenge against a family that had never understood him or his needs. How dare his father insinuate that he wasn’t capable! Davorin had killed the golden son, hadn’t he? He had killed the greatest warrior in the land and only Seraphina was the wiser.
Davorin flicked his eyes to where his sister sat, perfectly serene and calm with her metal-tipped fingers drawing mindless patterns on her husband’s arm. She returned Davorin’s gaze with a gentle smile and a dipping of her head. He resisted the urge to throw his goblet at her, instead draining it. She had not even had to do anything to make Davorin look the fool in front of everybody. She might not be able to inherit the throne of the Empire, but she was hardly lacking in power now that Davorin had made himself the laughing stock of Mardego.
Let the other nobles talk. Let them whisper behind his back as he refused to be cowed by the fool of an Emperor.
He would prove them wrong. He would prove them all wrong. He would find his armies and conquer in the name of the Empire, without his father’s help. He would make his name synonymous with power and strength. None would dare stand in his way. And when the time was right? Well, Davorin would whisper his truth in his father’s ear and then slip a knife into him. Just like Dagan.
Chapter Four
Ravenna huddled in the bottom of the boat, her wings wrapped around her. She couldn’t stop trembling. It was not from cold, either, though the spray of the ocean was much colder than she could have ever imagined. Her mind just kept replaying the last few hours, unable to process what had happened. It was worse than anything she had ever considered.
Ravenna had imagined her sister would be the one to sic Crispin on her, having her vanish in an “accident” because of her faulty wings. Ravenna also thought that perhaps one day the other sylphs would grow tired of acknowledging her burdens and beat her, leaving her for dead. Or banish her, even from the Tower and the Intellecti. Worse, even, they could ignore her completely, pretending she did not exist. Only Tacitus had ever stood in the way of that, acting as her champion and surrogate for the motherless sylph she was. But he was only a heart-father. It could never be the same thing. Ravenna never would have imagined that her doom would come in the form of these wingless…humans.
She cowered lower as the dark-skinned one holding her rope sneered. Ravenna had struggled at first, thinking that maybe she was stronger, that she could fight them off. They had no wings. They had not been trained to run around the island and leap from trees. They had never been pushed off a cliff. Wingless though they were, these humans were far stronger than Ravenna could ever have anticipated. Her ribs still smarted from their blows. Her screams had yielded no help, either. She wondered if anyone had even heard her.
