Blood of Ravens

by Jen McIntosh

  The hellion’s eyes were on her now. ‘What are you?’ she asked, scanning Keriath’s ragged form with sadistic curiosity.

  ‘Unicorn,’ the crone grunted, her eyes lingering on the faint star-mark upon Keriath’s brow then flickering over her pointed ears. ‘And more.’

  ‘A royal gift, Drosta,’ purred Talize, itching towards his prisoner.

  Beside her, Pria giggled and clapped her hands with glee. ‘We’re going to have so much fun!’ she sang.

  But Ylain was scowling.

  ‘That bloodline is extinct,’ she snarled, silencing the other two with an imperious wave of her hand, ‘drowned beneath the water they so revered.’

  ‘Is this some kind of trick then?’ asked Talize, turning her sensual gaze on Drosta. He opened his mouth to speak, but the crone cut over him.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘She’s star-marked alright. I can smell the magic in her from here. I’m assuming you’ve fed from her?’ she added, looking to Drosta.

  ‘A mouthful or two, here and there,’ he admitted with an unashamed shrug.

  Ylain grunted. ‘I might have known. Graced blood is potent stuff – especially to those not born with it in their veins. No, I’d say she’s the real thing.’

  ‘It’s not impossible,’ Talize mused. ‘There were plenty of survivors. The Shade rounded them all up and kept them as pets, remember? The harems were full of them. Of all the Graced, they were best for pleasure. And coveted for breeding.’

  ‘The Shade King destroyed those harems,’ Pria reminded them. ‘He burned their whores alive, along with the bastards in their bellies, and outlawed the practice. None of them survived.’

  ‘Some survived,’ said Ylain in a deadly quiet voice. Then she fixed those baleful eyes on Keriath. ‘Who is your father?’

  Keriath repressed a grim smile. Ylain was not stupid. She knew the Old Stories – knew which bloodlines to watch out for. Keriath’s amethyst gaze betrayed her as Unicorn nobility, not peasant stock with their eyes of pearlescent blue or liquid silver. Her brother was fortunate enough to have taken after his father, but Keriath was their mother reborn. Ylain hadn’t missed her pointed ears, and it wouldn’t take long for them to discover the damaged Dragon-marks on her back. There was only one place those three bloodlines had mixed successfully in the last two hundred years.

  ‘Answer her!’ Drosta snarled when Keriath remained silent.

  But that was the crux of her dilemma. She knew the words that would end this all now. The Darkling Queens, like the rest of the world, believed the King’s claim. But if they were allied with Zorana and Mazron against the King? Well … not even that would save her now. She needed another option.

  Drosta’s fist collided with her gut when she still did not answer. Dell released her, and she went crashing to the floor, gasping for air as she tried to breathe through the pain. She gritted her teeth and heaved herself to her feet as she fought through the waves of agony crashing through her. Drosta growled in warning as he advanced on her once more, but she halted him with a single, imperious look. She was just glad her brother wasn’t here to see what she was about to do. He’d crack a rib laughing.

  ‘I am Olena, daughter of Taelyr,’ she proclaimed, throwing her shoulders back as she stared down the Queens. Had she been mortal, the lie would have never worked. But the magic of the long-lived Graced made it all but impossible to discern her real age. She was twelve years older than her brother, but amongst the Graced, she could have passed for either his mother or daughter.

  ‘Well, well,’ murmured Ylain with a twisted grin. ‘I am so very glad to meet you Olena. You and I have much to discuss.’

  ‘I want to taste her,’ Talize breathed, inching forward once more.

  ‘Me too,’ giggled Pria. ‘I wonder how much punishment that Graced body can take?’

  ‘Later,’ Ylain snapped. She signalled to the sentinels lining the walls. ‘She may well prove useful, and I don’t want either of you to break her before we find out. Take her down to the Pits – the Core should hold her. We can’t risk her escaping.’

  Cruel hands gripped Keriath and pulled her away. As her gaze was finally torn from the malicious smiles of the Darkling Queens, her eyes fell instead upon Dell and his Hunter. She was not surprised by the sadness in Dell’s eyes, nor the unrestrained glee in Drosta’s.

  She closed her eyes and allowed herself to be taken away. Whatever her future held, it had to be better than giving in to the darkness.

  It took four guards to hold her as they dragged her down into the heart of the mountain. Despite the poison coursing through her veins, she was still Graced, and these Darklings were not. It was, she realised, a sign of just how strong Drosta and his Hunt had been. No wonder the Queens feared him.

  They led her down through a vast network of caves, a warren just as convoluted as the maze surrounding the throne room. But the reason for it soon become clear as she descended into the Pits. The corridors were lined with recesses, each one sealed off with sturdy iron bars. Whether it was the muffled wails of the doomed begging for mercy or the overpowering stench of human waste that caused the stinging in her eyes, she was not sure. But she was unashamed of the tears streaking her cheeks as they marched her past the unwashed herd of the Queens’ prized cattle, doomed to live and die in this awful place.

  The hallway opened out into an enormous cavern, two or three times the size of the throne room high above. More cells, recessed into the walls, lined the chamber, and great metal cages dangled from the ceiling on chains. Each one was large enough to hold at least twenty people. The floor was littered with deep sinkholes, each one covered by an iron grate; the agonised screams of the occupants echoed off the rocks above with so much force that Keriath feared her skull would shatter.

  She refused to cry then. These were the cells that had held the Graced prisoners of Sephiron’s heirs. Just as they had held the slaves who carved out the mountain, now they held the Queens’ livestock – human beings, captured and bred in darkness to keep those monsters and their horde of children sated.

  But only Darklings, not the Shade nor any form of twisted Graced, guarded this keep now, and none of those cells were strong enough to contain Keriath. So they dragged her to the middle of the cavern where the floor melted away into a spiral staircase descending deeper into the rock.

  There was no light down there – the guards carried a torch with them. This far beneath the earth, it was so cold her breath misted in the dank air. At the foot of the rough-hewn stairs was a door of solid oak, carved like the doors to the throne room. But this time, runes of binding and containment infused the wood itself with the dark magic of the mountain.

  They paused on the threshold, while one of the guards opened the door. It lowered like a drawbridge into the room beyond – though room was perhaps an inaccurate description of the cavity. It was little more than a rough-cut chamber carved into the rock. The floor dropped away into darkness, only a small stone pedestal reaching up to meet the door-bridge. It was to this rocky platform that they led her.

  Glancing around, she could just make out what, at first, she thought to be lethal-looking stalactites and stalagmites above and below her. But as she looked closer, she realised that vicious iron spikes had been driven into the walls of the cavern. She shuddered. Whoever this cage had been designed to hold had been far more powerful than she. Once the door-bridge was raised, there would be no way to reach the entrance without impaling herself.

  Thick chains descended from the rock above, while more lay strewn on the platform beside her. The guards reached for them, and she flinched away before being overpowered. As soon as the manacles were clamped around her wrists and ankles, she recognised the spell that had infused Drosta’s chains – magic to nullify her Graced strength. The chains were long enough that she could reach the door, but as her eyes tracked through the gloom, she noted they could be pulled tighter. She dreaded the day they put that feature to use. Satisfied that she was contained, her jailers had hauled t
he door-bridge up and locked it – taking their burning torch with them.

  They stood guard outside the oak door now. She could sense that much, even if she could see nothing. The darkness itself didn’t bother her, but the enormous mass of the mountain pressing down from above did. She’d always needed open space around her, ever since the day she’d received her scars. It was possible that just the sheer discomfort of being trapped underground would be enough to drive her mad.

  But worse than claustrophobia, the disturbing pressure of whatever black magic suffused this blasted mountain was becoming unbearable. The weight of a hundred thousand souls crying out in protest at the corruption of their lifeblood was crushing. Even long after, her kind remained sensitive to the imprint of violent death. She could hear screams of the dead echoing up out of the blood-soaked rock. The force of it would have been enough to bring her low, had she not already lacked the strength to stand.

  So instead, she lay there and let the skull-shattering pain of it drag her down into oblivion.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tracking the Dragons wasn’t as hard as Alexan had thought it would be. To be fair, they hadn’t been subtle to begin with. They’d left a trail about six-foot wide as they’d smashed through the Ravenswood. Maybe trying to draw Drosta’s Hunt away from Keriath, but given what he knew about them, it seemed unlikely. Not when they could’ve slaughtered that Hunt without working up a sweat.

  Any lingering doubts to that vanished when he found their killing field. He laughed out loud. Little wonder Drosta had been so irate. He almost felt a flash of pity for the poor bastards as he looked at the surrounding carnage. They’d never stood a chance. Not against those two. He didn’t need to see the evidence to realise Kah Faolin’s reputation was well-earned, though it would appear there was more to Sil Dorrien than met the eye. Between the bloodbath before him, and what he’d learned during his own fight with Keriath, he realised there’d been no need for them to run. It had to have been a distraction, an attempt to draw the Hunt away from whatever they’d been searching for in that forest.

  It had worked too. He ground his teeth in frustration. The scent of magic lay heavy on the air, and he knew all too well what that meant. But he had his orders, and they did not include investigating Awakenings. He couldn’t even linger long enough to explore why there hadn’t been a single living thing for over a mile in any direction. Not when the Dragons – the best chance he had at finding the King’s daughter – were about to slither back into whatever hole they’d been hiding in for the last century.

  Finding the tracks that led out of the battlefield was slightly more challenging. Slightly. The trail of blood wasn’t quite six-foot wide, but to his Darkling senses it was about as obvious. One of them was wounded then. Curious that it hadn’t healed. He considered his options as he prowled in their wake. They were headed west, up into the mountains. Away from the Barren Lands. And they appeared to be on foot. If he could just catch up before they Changed …

  A pool of blood caught his gaze. He frowned, kneeling to examine the ground. A stream gurgled nearby. A stop to refill supplies then. He ran his tongue over his lips, thinking. Such an obvious trail made him nervous. The Shade King had been trying for the best part of a century to hunt those two down – along with any other remnants of those bloodlines – without success. And not for lack of trying. Even on the rare occasion someone had spotted them, they melted back into the wilderness so fast that, all too often, his scouts wondered if they’d seen them at all. This careless trail? It seemed out of character. He proceeded with caution.

  Caution which turned out to be unnecessary when he caught up with them.

  Kah Faolin had been wounded in the fight. His bronze face was pale and drawn, his eyes closed – whether unconscious, asleep or resting, Alexan wasn’t sure. Only the sound of shallow breathing and a faint heartbeat told him Faolin was still alive.

  Sil Dorrien was bent over the fire, cleaning bandages in a pot of boiling water with one hand and digging around in her pack for more food with the other. There was not so much as a hint of panic in that lovely, heart-shaped face. Alexan smirked, watching with interest. There was an awful lot more to the silver-haired woman than either he or the King had realised. He noted it all. The Shade King made it his business to learn as much as possible about all his enemies, and Sil Dorrien had been on the list ever since the Fall.

  ‘Dorrien,’ Faolin mumbled, breaking the silence. Alexan noted how her calm facade cracked as she turned to him and reached for the water skin. No doubt, she assumed Kah Faolin would fail to notice through the pain, but to Alexan, the raw fear in those cold, silver eyes was all too clear.

  ‘I’m here,’ she said. She helped Faolin lift his head to drink, but even the few sips he managed looked to be an effort for him.

  ‘You lit a fire,’ he admonished, his voice little more than a breathless whisper.

  She scowled. ‘You’ll be lucky to make it as things stand. I don’t fancy your chances if that gets infected. Besides, I was cold.’

  Faolin chuckled at that, but his laughter turned into a hacking cough – the grip of pain showing on his face. Alexan watched as she cleaned and dressed his wound. The strike had missed the Dragon’s heart by a fraction of an inch. Between Alexan’s shoulder blades, an old scar on his back twinged in sympathy. Faolin was lucky to be alive. He’d be luckier still to stay that way if he didn’t get help soon. No matter how skilled Sil Dorrien was, that wound would need Caster-healed if it was to be anything but fatal.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Faolin asked.

  She did not answer immediately, as though worried how he might react. When she spoke, her voice was quiet but firm.

  ‘I’m taking you to Silvermane,’ she said. He opened his mouth to argue, but she spoke over him. ‘It’s not just because of you – though I won’t deny that’s the main reason. I’m worried. Something about this doesn’t sit right. He needs to know. We need guidance, and you need healing. The blade was poisoned, Faolin. I’ve cleaned the wound as best I can, but it will take the Casting to purge it, and more skill than either you or I possess.’

  They fell silent for a long time, the air thick with repressed emotions. The tension was palpable. Alexan studied them, searching for any weakness he might be able to use. He couldn’t believe he’d got this close. Kah Faolin and Sil Dorrien. The legendary brother and sister who could rule half of Ciaron … if they were ever brave enough to claim their thrones. Faolin thought his sister was overreacting, judging by the look on his face. Alexan didn’t need to get any closer to know she wasn’t. It was standard for most Darklings to coat their weapons in poison when they hunted the Graced. Nothing strong enough to risk killing them outright – just enough to slow them down. He’d never bothered, but then he’d been one of them before the Claiming. Gods damn him if he needed a poisoned blade to fight his own kind.

  He watched them through the night. Dorrien didn’t sleep at all, though she seemed unruffled come the dawn. She woke her brother without a word, cleaned and dressed his wound with fresh bandages, and dismantled their camp with cool indifference. Alexan didn’t believe it for a second. It was like watching the surface of a still lake – who knew what those dark depths held? Overnight, he’d watched her sort what little they had into one pack, and she hefted it up onto her shoulders with ease. Then she helped her brother to his feet and slung one of his powerful arms around her shoulders. Alexan smiled at the absurdity of it. Faolin was tall, broad-shouldered and corded in muscle, and though his sister was tall, her body was slight. Had she not been Graced, she would never have managed. Unnatural strength was one of the few gifts that all the Graced shared.

  She set a gruelling pace as they passed through the forest and headed up into the mountains – or at least it would be for Faolin. Alexan had no problem keeping up, but he stayed well back.

  They made frequent brief stops as the terrain grew more challenging and Faolin’s condition worsened. Alexan chafed at their pace, bored by the
ease of this hunt and desperate to return to the comforts of Elucion. Though he understood why the King had chosen him for this task – there was no one else who could play this role – it still grated on him. He’d spent a hundred years burying that part of himself. A hundred years drowning those memories in the darkness. He did not relish the prospect of reliving those horrors again.

  Two days later, Faolin was struggling to remain conscious. Alexan had kept his distance, following their scent rather than trying to keep sight of them and risk being spotted. From what he’d seen, Dorrien had resorted to carrying her brother. How she was navigating the mountains was beyond him. She must have been exhausted. As far as he could tell, she still hadn’t slept, and it showed.

  He crept closer while she set up camp, her fire not as well hidden this time. Her grey eyes were ringed with shadow and her golden skin looked just about as pale and drawn as her brother’s. The stink of death was closing in. The end was approaching. Unless he reached help soon, Kah Faolin would not survive.

  Dorrien seemed to come to the same conclusion later that night. She stood and walked around the fire, leaning down to shake her brother awake.

  ‘Faolin, wake up,’ she begged. Alexan forced himself to feel nothing at the sound of her voice breaking. ‘I need you to wake up, just for a bit, so I can find somewhere for you to hide while I go for help.’