by Jen McIntosh
Keriath had the sense to keep her mouth shut as her eyes darted around, trying to take in her surroundings. Legend claimed this had once been Sephiron’s keep. She did not doubt it, not when the walls themselves were evidence of such a dark, corrupted mind. Nothing seemed to make sense. The corridors were a twisting labyrinth – the mythical maze of Dar Kual. It was said that during his reign none but Sephiron’s most trusted underlings could navigate the tangled web of passages.
She could believe it. She’d witnessed first-hand the work of his heirs. The Shade King, the one who claimed her as his own daughter, was the worst of them. She almost smiled to think of the punishment he would inflict upon Drosta if he ever learned the wrongs she had endured.
‘What’s so funny?’ Drosta hissed, grabbing her by the elbow. She gasped in pain as the movement jolted her ruined shoulder and glared at him as best she could. But she held her tongue, would never speak the words that might free her from this purgatory. They would only damn her to an even worse fate. Théon had learned that the hard way.
‘We should keep moving,’ Dell murmured under his breath, as another Hunt prowled past. Drosta snarled and shoved her forward, sending her staggering and forcing Dell to catch her. The movement was enough to make her scream, but a warning look from Drosta was enough to keep her quiet. Much as she’d like to cause trouble for him, she knew that drawing the attention of other Hunts would only result in her death.
When they were alone in the passage, she mumbled ‘Are we there yet?’ She saw Drosta’s shoulders tense at the taunt in her listless voice, but he said nothing. ‘Do you even know where you’re going?’ she asked, moments later. He whirled on her, snarling, his eyes blazing with rage. She flinched away, but Dell caught her, holding her fast to suffer Drosta’s temper.
‘I swear, by the Gods, I’ll kill you,’ he spat, his face inches from hers. Perhaps it was the pain talking, perhaps it was the poison itself loosening her tongue, but something made her brazen.
‘Get on with it then,’ she slurred. Drosta itched towards her, baring his teeth in silent threat.
But then Dell spoke. ‘Just leave it,’ he murmured. ‘We’ve got her this far – why waste all that effort to kill her now?’ There was no challenge in his voice, but Drosta eyed him in warning, almost looking for an excuse to argue. Finding none, he looked back to Keriath.
‘I hope they make you suffer,’ he breathed.
‘Can’t be any worse than you,’ she muttered.
Drosta’s face split into an evil grin. ‘Oh, sweet little Unicorn – you have no idea.’
At the diabolical certainty in his voice, Keriath felt a cold sliver of fear slip down her spine. She stilled, but Drosta’s eyes glowed as if he could see the shudder she repressed.
And for the first time since she had woken in that accursed wood, seen the faces of her captors, she considered speaking the words that would set her free. The lies of the Shade King. She’d seen what life as his heir had done to Théon, knew she would sooner die than suffer that …
But it was not death that she faced. Death would have been easy. Peaceful. Even the slow, painful one that Drosta’s bloody gaze offered. Instead, she was to be gifted to the Darkling Queens, a toy for them to play with as they pleased. She knew all too well what that might entail. Théon rarely spoke about those years with her father, but she’d relayed enough about the Queens since then for Keriath to understand what her fate would be. It was not something she was convinced she had the strength to bear.
The Shade King was her way out. All she had to do was claim the birthright the King offered, and this ordeal would be over. Not even the Queens would have the nerve to keep her from him. Only another Shade could risk it and survive, and there were none of those here. Sephiron’s heir liked to keep his brethren close. He did not trust them to roam beyond his sight, though some were too powerful for him to bring to heel. No, all she had to do was say it, and all would bow and scrape before her. She could have Drosta’s head with a single word, have him beaten and humiliated as he had done to her. She had to admit, it was tempting.
But she couldn’t do it. Not when there was so much else at stake.
‘Just get on with it,’ she said in a dead voice. She felt Dell stiffen behind her but bowed her head in submission.
With a grunt of satisfaction, Drosta turned on his heel and stormed into the gloom. Dell’s grip on her arm was gentle as he guided her after his master. She risked a glance up at his face and then wished she hadn’t. There was nothing but pity in his eyes.
‘Lean on me,’ he murmured, so soft she could barely hear him. ‘It’ll all be over soon.’
Dell’s kindness lasted until the moment Drosta’s attention drifted back to her, at which point, his grip on her arm tightened to the point of being painful. Keriath allowed herself the slightest whimper, and Drosta’s eyes glowed in amusement. As soon as he turned his back, Dell loosened his hold once more. She was not fool enough to believe that he cared for her. Only that he considered the horrors her future held bad enough and did not feel it necessary to add to her discomfort.
They came to the great doors almost by accident when the maze opened out into a large hallway. The doors themselves were perhaps three times the height of a man and made of polished ebony. Carved into the gleaming wood were all manner of monstrous depictions of pain and death. Keriath repressed a shudder as her eyes skirted the most grotesque of these, not allowing her gaze to linger. Her imagination needed no more inspiration than it had already been given.
Four Darkling sentinels guarded the door, armed with long spears and shields, dressed in ostentatious armour. Their eyes were little more than drops of blood glowing from beneath the crests of their helmets, and they remained unmoving as Drosta and his entourage approached. The Hunter drew to a halt just out of reach of those deadly-looking spears.
‘I, Drosta of Shadowbriar, request the honour of an audience with their Majesties, the dread Queens of Dar Kual,’ he said. In response to his ritual petition, the two central-most guards snapped their heels together and turned to the door. The doors swung open, and the guards marched through. Beyond the doors, Keriath could hear the guards’ boots snapping sharply on the hard floor, though she could see little through the Hunt crowded around her. Then a final crack as they drew to a smart halt and slammed the butts of their spears to the ground.
‘Dread Queens,’ they intoned together, ‘the Hunter, Drosta of Shadowbriar, requests the honour of an audience with your Majesties.’ There was a pause, and then an exasperated sigh that seemed out of place in such a formal setting.
‘What do you want, Drosta?’ came a long-suffering female voice from the other end of the room.
Drosta chuckled. ‘I bring tidings, dread Queen, from your children in the north – and a gift, a sign of my devotion to you.’
‘Send him in,’ the resigned voice said. The guards’ heels clicked together, and their spears banged once more on the floor, before their footsteps retreated back down the room.
‘I don’t know why you tolerate him,’ another woman muttered, her voice rich and throaty.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ chimed in a third delicate and girlish voice. ‘I find him entertaining. We’ve had all sorts of fun together down in the Pits.’ She giggled, and Keriath shuddered. She already knew which one to fear. The guards reappeared and drew to a sharp halt in their original positions.
‘Hail, Drosta of Shadowbriar,’ they pronounced together. ‘The dread Queens of Dar Kual bid you welcome and grant you the honour of a moment in their divine presence.’
‘Divine?’ Keriath whispered to Dell.
‘Shut up,’ he muttered and pushed her forward. The eyes of the sentinels fell on her, and they gleamed as they looked her up and down. But, at a warning growl from Drosta, they parted to allow them entry, and he swaggered forward with deadly surety.
Keriath glanced around, taking in her surroundings rather than look to the three women seated before them. More sentinels, armed a
nd armoured like their counterparts on the door, lined the chamber. The three thrones were elevated upon a great dais at the opposite end of the room from the great doors. There were no windows. The room was lit by torches burning in brackets on the walls. The chamber itself was cavernous, with a high, vaulted ceiling that appeared to have been carved out of the bare rock.
Legend said the whole keep had been carved out of the mountain. It had taken centuries, and a river of blood. With the power at his disposal, Sephiron could have completed the work himself in a fraction of the time. But instead he had used slaves to do his bidding, so he may save his strength for a greater battle. A hundred thousand men, women and children died to make this place. They had stained the rocks with their blood, if the stories were to be believed. Keriath glanced at the strange, reddish cast of the walls and was inclined to believe it.
Some might call it madness, but she knew better. Blood was life, and what was life but power? It was not just the strength of their arms he required, but the power of their lives. Each one had poured their life-force into this place, and now the mountain thrummed with that power. The smell of dark magic was an unnerving scent at the best of times, but here, it was laced with the sharp, metallic tang of blood.
Her stomach heaved. The scent of it alone was enough to make her stagger. But the memory in the stone was crushing. The weight of a hundred thousand souls, screaming to be released from their eternal servitude. Their life-force little more than fuel for the ancient spells Sephiron had placed within the rocks themselves. Not just spells of protection and defence either, but something else … something far darker.
Keriath’s attention was dragged back as Drosta drew to a halt before the thrones and dropped to a knee. All around him, his Hunt followed suit, and when Keriath refused, he took far too much pleasure in knocking her legs out from under her. She gasped from the pain that her fall sent shooting through her injured shoulder, her vision fading in and out as she fought to remain conscious. Dell’s fingers found her upper arm and pulled her upright so she knelt alongside and could lean against him.
‘Rise, Drosta of Shadowbriar,’ intoned the long-suffering voice. Keriath tried to focus on the three women in front of her, but the pain and the nausea caused by the corrupt magic around her made it difficult. Drosta stood and stepped forward, though his Hunt remained kneeling.
‘Keep your head down,’ Dell whispered to her, his voice so soft she was half convinced she had imagined it.
‘My Queens,’ Drosta purred, bowing. ‘To stand in your divine presence makes my heart soar. Had I the soul of a poet, I would sing to the world of your terrible beauty. But I am but a simple warrior, and the only language I speak is that of death and ruin.’
One of them sighed, but another spoke over her. ‘Pretty words for one who claims such simplicity,’ she mused. Hers was the husky, seductive voice that had spoken second. It was almost as appealing as that of a Unicorn. But unlike those of her people, this Queen’s voice was hypnotic in a way that made Keriath’s skin crawl – imposing rather than alluring. ‘What tidings do you bring from our children in the north?’ she asked, her musical voice lulling Keriath. Dell’s arm tightened around her waist as if sensing the slight lowering of her defences, but he didn’t risk saying anything out loud.
‘The Princess Zorana has taken the Oak Throne,’ Drosta was saying, ‘but she does not have the power to extend her hold beyond the city walls. Your Majesties’ forces hold the forests now.’ Despite the pain and the overpowering pressure from the dark magic surrounding her, Keriath’s attention sharpened at Drosta’s words, but she kept her eyes on the floor – anything to avoid drawing their gaze. The Silvan Forests had been overrun since the Fall. Darkling numbers had always been too great for anyone to get close enough to get any useful information.
‘Well, it’s a start,’ the exasperated voice growled.
The high, girlish voice spoke. ‘I assume you’ve ordered them to contain her for now?’
‘Indeed,’ said that weary voice. ‘We will need time to gather our forces, as will they. If we don’t strike together, with our full strength, he will crush us. If we allow her to take the north without a fight, the King will know that we are working together against him. He will not risk us joining her in open rebellion – not when his hold is so tenuous. Nor will he wait for us to explain. There will be no mercy, no second chance. Not this time.’
‘It is taken care of, Your Majesty,’ Drosta assured her, bowing low.
‘And what news of the Prince? Will Mazron stand with us?’ the beautiful voice asked.
‘He sends his regards,’ Drosta replied, ‘and two hundred souls for your Majesties’ pleasure. He could not meet in person, but he sent one of his agents in his stead. She informed me he has wooed most of Ciaron’s Nightwalkers to the cause, and that they are nearly ready. All that remains, Majesties, is to consider the expansion of our own forces.’
There was a pregnant pause. ‘You want our permission to expand your Hunt?’
‘It’s big enough as it is, Drosta,’ said the irritable, older voice. ‘I don’t like it when one of my underlings has a bigger army than I do.’
Drosta bowed. ‘I can assure you, I am loyal to your Majesties – as all your children are. I only seek to replenish what I have lost. I’m afraid I ran into a little trouble in the Ravenswood. My Hunt is no longer what it was. I thought it may also be beneficial to allow my second to start his own Hunt. While he would remain loyal to me, his children would not be. It would allow me to approach Illyol with the requisite numbers, while still keeping the numbers in my own Hunt at a manageable level.’
‘That still leaves you in charge,’ the old voice snapped.
‘And since you are so loyal to us,’ the younger voice added, with just enough sarcasm to convey the lack of belief she had in his allegiance, ‘your presence in Illyol, complete with reinforcements, will do very little to convince the King that we are not in open rebellion against him.’
‘My reputation precedes me everywhere I go, Your Majesties,’ Drosta said with a shrug. ‘I’m considered a mad dog … If he asks, just tell him I got off the leash. I’ll deny to my last breath that you ever had any knowledge of what I was up to.’
The Queens were quiet for a long moment while they absorbed his words. Keriath could feel Dell trembling beside her – whether from fear or anticipation, she didn’t know. She risked a sidelong glance at him. Jaw clenched tight, he looked annoyed more than anything else, though the reason still eluded her.
‘Alright,’ the beautiful voice conceded. ‘I don’t know what game you’re playing, and I’m not sure I care.’
‘Just play it carefully, Drosta,’ the little girl voice added, her threatening tone so at odds with the delicate sound coming out of her mouth. ‘I like you, but if you cross us, you’ll be begging for death by the time I’m done with you.’
There was a beat and then the older voice spoke. ‘You may choose one to become a Hunter. But not your second. I know you well enough Drosta – your second stays here with me, to ensure your good behaviour.’
Keriath looked to Dell once more. He scowled irritably, but there was no hint of surprise on his face. He must have known they would demand this price – known that his Hunter would not argue. She glanced up as Drosta spoke and saw the sardonic smirk on his lips. But it did not reach his eyes; they glinted with malice and bloodlust. The Queens were fools to trust him. He gave a mocking little bow before stepping aside and motioning for Dell to bring her forward. ‘I understand, dread Queens, and thank you for this opportunity,’ he proclaimed. ‘And now, to prove my undying devotion to your magnificence.’ Dell’s fingers on her arms were trembling as he stood, hauling her up with him. His steps were hesitant, but he did not falter as he pushed her ahead of him. She kept her eyes downcast, not daring to look upon her fate.
‘What’s this?’ the lovely voice asked.
‘A gift, Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘We found her in the Ravenswood, where she met with
two Dragons. Sadly, they escaped, but we caught this one. I thought she might please you, so I brought her back for you.’
There was a derisive snort, and then the older one spoke. ‘What makes you think we’d be interested in some scrawny mortal? Look at her – she doesn’t even have enough strength to keep us sated for an hour, never mind longer.’
‘I suggest you look again, Eminence,’ Drosta replied. But Keriath heard the hard little edge of smugness creeping into his voice. The irritable Queen did too.
‘I don’t like your tone, boy,’ she snarled. But the one with the beautiful voice hushed her.
‘Look at me, child,’ she breathed. Keriath shuddered as she tried to ignore the command in those words. But this place trembled with ancient power, and mortal or not, more than Darkling magic had touched that Queen. Keriath was panting with exertion as her chin jerked up against her will. Her lips pulled back, and she bared her teeth in a silent snarl as she looked at the Darkling Queens.
The one in the middle was on her feet. She had an exotic beauty about her – soft, pouty lips and a full, voluptuous figure with dark, sultry eyes that were all too alluring for Keriath’s comfort. She’d never seen beauty like that in a mortal before. This had to be the owner of that hypnotic, husky voice. Mortal she might be, but that body thrummed with stolen power.
The two Queens on either side of her could not have been any more different. To her right was an old crone, withered and bent, with eyes like shards of glass and a brittle smile. To her left was a young girl, perhaps only ten years old, with adorable chestnut curls and dimples in her childlike cheeks. But Keriath knew better. These were the Darkling Queens. Sephiron’s first and most loyal creations.
Ylain, Talize and Pria. Keriath had heard stories. One spoke of a Unicorn boy and his sister, captured by the Shade. The girl they sent to their harems – a prize mare for breeding. The boy they sent to the cells deep in the mountain, to keep her obedient. They didn’t know what he would grow to be. Who he would grow to sire. Taelyr’s father and Lord of the Isles before the Fall. Her mother’s husband and the only father Keriath had ever known. He had been little more than a child then – too young to interest Talize – and had known nothing of any worth, so Ylain had left him alone. But Pria. Keriath glanced at the youngest Queen and was not surprised by the malevolence roiling in that angelic face. She had heard it in the girl’s voice, but it was no less disturbing to see it.
