by Jen McIntosh
‘Illyandi?’ he mumbled.
‘No, it’s me, Dorrien,’ she managed through the tears. ‘Faolin you have to wake up now, just stay awake for a few minutes. I’m going to look for somewhere you can hide while I get help.’
‘Come … with … you,’ he gasped. His voice was so weak Alexan had to strain to hear it.
‘You’re slowing me down,’ she said. ‘I’ll be quicker alone – we’re not far. I can go for help and be back in less time than it would take you to go one way. If we try to go together, you’ll never make it. So wake up and stay alert, just for a few moments.’
She was persistent, Alexan gave her that much, dragging her brother up to sitting, leaning him against a rock. She even unsheathed his sword and put it in his hand. As if he had the strength to lift it. Then she shouldered the pack and was gone.
Alexan wasn’t stupid enough to follow her. He waited near Faolin, trying to quiet the thrum of anticipation coursing through his body. He was close now. So close.
She returned without the pack and roused Faolin once more. After stamping out the fire, she heaved him up over her shoulder one last time. It looked ridiculous. But she didn’t falter. Her expression was one of grim determination as she wove her way through the hills.
Alexan considered what he knew of her as he followed. Heir to the Jewel of Ciaron, she’d been a child during the Fall … when she’d watched her mother butchered by the Darkling Queens. Somehow, she and her brother had escaped the slaughter. He’d always assumed they’d had help. That they’d been saved by some loyalist, like the Elvish Princesses Théon and Illyandi, snatched from danger and hidden until it was all over. But based on what he was witnessing, it wouldn’t surprise him to learn she’d fought her way out by herself.
Her reputation was for charm and political manoeuvring – he’d assumed she was nothing more than a figurehead for the Dragons to rally behind. And they would need it. Dragons were a proud, selfish people who cared more for riches and renown than for their own kin. Many – if not most – were Nightwalkers now, and they ruled their mountain territories with an iron fist. Kah Faolin and Sil Dorrien were almost all that remained of a once hopeful lineage.
The King might just have to re-evaluate his assessment of the Dragons. The Change seemed crude compared to the Casting – compared to the finesse required to manipulate the world itself – but it was no less effective on a battlefield. Besides, there was far more happening beneath the surface of the still waters of Sil Dorrien’s cool face than he had expected. Perhaps enough even to turn the tide of this war against them.
She was descending out of the hills now, heading for the south-east end of the Nightloch. Alexan paused on the higher ground, watching while she picked her way through the rocks. Then she vanished. He blinked. He’d felt no ripple of magic, and besides, that kind of power was far beyond either of them. He swallowed a dozen oaths and was about to stand when he caught her scent on the wind. Relief crashed over him. She was still there, just hidden somewhere amongst the rocks.
He crept closer, stopping when he was close enough to hear, and prayed the wind didn’t change direction and carry his scent right to her.
‘Faolin,’ she was murmuring. ‘I need you to listen. There’s water and food beside you, but I can’t risk a fire. This place is well hidden, so I hope you’ll be safe here, at least for a while.’ His response was little more than an incoherent mumble. Then a change in his breathing told Alexan he’d slipped out of consciousness. He could smell the salt water of her tears, but he tried not to hear her whispered farewell. Not when it stirred memories better left alone. ‘I love you.’
Moments later, she appeared further down the hillside, rolling her shoulders as if readying for a fight and frowning in concentration. The moon shifted out from behind a cloud, and as the light hit her body, she Changed. Her silver marks glowed in the moonlight, growing brighter and brighter until they almost obscured her entire body. Her form shimmered and shifted, Changing in a way that almost looked to be a trick of the light. But as the moon disappeared back behind the clouds and shadows took her once more, the Change became clear.
Where Sil Dorrien had stood, now was a shimmering bird of prey. An osprey, if Alexan wasn’t mistaken. He almost grinned at the sight of it. The power of the Dragons. Rare enough even before the Fall, it was a marvel a hundred years later. Fascinated, he watched as the osprey stretched her wings wide, testing their strength, before she turned her head and checked over her feathers with a careful eye. Then, satisfied, she opened her wings once more and launched herself into the air.
Alexan stayed where he was. He was good, but not that good.
Instead, he settled himself amongst the rocks to keep watch. He didn’t dare get any closer, not unless he had to. Dorrien would scent his presence when she returned. The stink of Darkling was unmistakable. It was the stench of death. Of stolen life. Alexan hated it. So he tugged his cloak tighter about his shoulders and waited.
His thoughts drifted. He was impatient to get moving. His orders – the compulsion they were laced with – were a constant drive onward. Find her. Théon. The Shade King’s daughter. Well, one of them. A shame those orders had been so specific. He would have been well rewarded if he’d delivered Keriath to her father. He snorted with disgust. Served the King right for being so controlling.
Gods, Keriath. It would take days – weeks even – for her to reach Dar Kual. Weeks on the road, with nobody but Drosta and his unruly Hunt for company. Alexan cursed his King, shuddering to consider what she would have to endure. And once she arrived and was at the mercy of the Darkling Queens. How long until he might be able to rescue her? Or send for help, if he could not go himself? He could do nothing for her until her found Théon. He could not risk alerting the Dragons. How long would she have to suffer at their hands? He shoved the thoughts away. Refused to torture himself by remembering all the evil, twisted things he’d not only witnessed being inflicted on the Graced over the last century but had done to them himself.
Instead, he considered what he’d overheard in the Ravenswood before Drosta’s Hunt had ruined a perfectly good ambush. They’d spoken of Taelyr – Keriath’s brother. Half-brother. Keriath might deny her parentage, and her mother might have dismissed the Shade King’s claims, but Alexan just needed to look at her face to know. The King’s line had bred true there. He didn’t know much about Taelyr, beside his bloodlines and the powers that came with them. Rumour had it he was a waste of good skin, and a serial womaniser. Alexan had seen reports of at least two star-marked children, thought to be his bastards. Neither had survived long. Still, Taelyr seemed to have learned his lesson. There had been no sign of another in the last decade.
It was interesting. Not only had Keriath been with her waste-of-space brother but, on being separated from him, walked right into the waiting arms of Drosta’s Hunt. And there was the detail that didn’t sit right. Drosta had been prepared to hunt and capture Graced prey, and that didn’t happen by accident. Mortal Hunts didn’t go after a prize like that without warning, and they didn’t carry spelled chains or power-binding potions as standard. Even the weakest remnants of the Graced bloodlines were nigh on impossible to find. Drosta had to have known what she was and where she would be. Not that he’d have anything to show for his efforts if Alexan hadn’t captured his prize for him. Someone had betrayed her to Drosta. Alexan had an inclination who, but the why continued to elude him. Possibilities churned over and over in his mind until sleep claimed him.
The palace echoed with the screams of the dying. Noble and servant alike, butchered in their beds, drenching those sacred halls in the stench of blood. Some begged. Most didn’t have a chance. Their murderers laughed. Alexan ignored it all.
The clash of steel rang through the hallways. He ran towards it. Sprinting down corridors he would know blindfolded. Anything unfortunate enough to cross his path died. Blade or Casting, it made no difference. He wanted blood. When he found whoever was behind this …
The thought was cut off as a woman screamed, ‘Alexan!’
He knew that voice. Not even death would have stopped him from answering her call.
His Queen.
Diathor.
He turned the corner. Almost fell to his knees at what he saw.
The Prince was dead. Alexan could see his body, spreadeagled on the bed in the chamber beyond. Throat slit from ear to ear. The sheets stained with blood.
His Queen was still alive.
Barely.
The knife had pierced her heart. Blood poured from the wound, painting her silken nightgown crimson. Bodies piled around her feet. Traitors she’d brought down. Several remained, held at bay by her Casting. It would not last much longer.
Her evergreen eyes met his.
And then he realised. She had not called him here to save her. Not when she had planted herself between danger and her daughters, blocking the main hallway that led to the Princesses’ rooms. But there was another. One that only she and he knew about. He nodded in understanding, even as his heart shattered in his chest.
‘Save him,’ she ordered. ‘Save Kah Faolin. And in doing so, save yourself.’
Alexan jerked himself from the dream to find himself drenched in a cold sweat, promptly turning and vomiting into a nearby bush. He heaved and retched until there was nothing to come up but bile, while he tried to force the images from his mind. They did not go quietly. The memory of those evergreen eyes least of all.
He lay back, panting. Tried to ignore his racing heart and violently trembling limbs. How the King would laugh to see him like this …
He swore. Took a deep breath. Forced his body to still. His heart to slow. His stomach to settle. Rubbed a weary hand over his face. Swore again.
It had been years, decades, since that face had haunted his dreams, since he’d endured the guilt and self-loathing that followed. He was under no illusions why it had chosen this moment to resurface.
You broke your vow.
He shoved the thought aside and staggered to his feet. There were some bonds that not even the Claiming could break, and even in death, his Queen held his heart in her fist. He could no more deny her than he could stop breathing. Thank the Gods the Shade King was not there to witness it.
He stumbled down the hill, muttering a dozen oaths beneath his breath. He knew what he was about to do risked getting him killed, but his body seemed determined to try, regardless. Reaching within, he searched beyond the Darkling for the magic below. He’d buried his power deep a long time ago now – hidden it where the King would never find it. Unused and smothered, it was a flicker of its former glory. But even as he roused it back to life, he was reminded why he had worked so hard to conceal it.
It was vast. Dark and mighty, and strong enough to have rivalled the Elf-Queen herself. Far greater than a motherless wretch should possess. The Casting was a birthright, and the Graced were a proud people. For a power like his to surface outside the Elvish court meant he’d been born on the wrong side of the sheets. He’d learned at a young age to feign limitations he had never known.
But it wasn’t until the Claiming that he had realised how different, how other he was. The taste of the Casting in his mouth should have made his stomach heave. Elvish Darklings rarely used their power, and with good reason. The magics of the Graced and the Darklings were like fire and ice; neither could exist in the other’s presence unchanged. It should have broken him to Cast against Keriath in the Ravenswood. And yet, Alexan’s power was not just unaffected by the Darkling curse. He was stronger than he’d ever been. It was unnatural and did not bear thinking about.
He cursed his Queen once more, kneeling beside Kah Faolin. Even in the darkness, Alexan could see the glint of Kah Faolin’s jet-black tattoos. The dragon-marks. It was a straightforward code: each clan marking was a different colour, and the more tattoos the individual carried, the stronger they were. Crude and simple. Much like the Dragons themselves.
He leaned closer and pulled back the layers Dorrien had buried her brother beneath. Faolin’s eyes flickered open, and Alexan flinched back. But the fierce yellow eyes were unseeing as Alexan examined the wound. It was deep. Dorrien had done a good job of keeping it clean, but the poison lingered in his blood.
Alexan frowned. Bloodrot. It was slow-acting and expensive. How a member of a mortal Hunt had got their hands on it was beyond him. His jaw clenched with frustration while he considered the task before him. There was something about the Graced that repelled his power. It had been bad enough when he’d healed Keriath. This was likely to be far worse.
So he steeled himself against the wave of nausea that was bound to follow and readied himself for the Casting. He reached out with a tendril of magic, seeking out the poison, and purged it from the blood. Faolin hissed as the pain of the process roused him to consciousness. But whatever discomfort Faolin felt was nothing compared to the agony coursing through Alexan in that moment. He growled through clenched teeth as the magic in Faolin’s veins raged against the bitter touch of his dark power.
Then the poison was gone. He released the Casting with a sigh of relief, panting from the effort as he stepped back.
‘I don’t know who you are, or why you helped me,’ whispered Faolin, drifting back to unconsciousness, ‘but thank you.’
Alexan grimaced and retreated, praying to the Gods that he hadn’t just ruined his best chance at finding the King’s daughter.
He staggered down the hill until he came to the loch shore, crashing to all fours. Splashing the cool, clear water over his face, he drank deeply then slumped to the ground, still panting. Gods, the mark on his palm was burning too. It always did when he used that power. He shoved it into the icy loch and tried not to notice how the water hissed at the contact, as if it wanted to shy away from that peculiar design. Away from the image of a coiled snake, devouring its own tail.
Turning his hand over so he didn’t have to look at it, he groaned and sprawled on the sandy banks of the loch. Soothed by the quiet lapping of the water at the shore, Alexan allowed his exhaustion to drag him into a dreamless sleep.
It was midday by the time he found the strength to move. He staggered back up the hill, cautiously at first, until he realised Dorrien hadn’t returned. He risked surveying his work from the night before. Faolin’s breathing was easier, and the wound was starting to heal. He was sleeping now. Without the poison slowing him down, Alexan guessed the Dragon would be strong enough to stand soon, though it would take another few days for him to heal fully.
Then he heard it. Hooves crashing like waves over the rocks. A rider murmuring encouragement. Alexan caught a mingled scent, carried on the wind. Horse-that-was-not-a-horse. And something else. Someone else. Dorrien was returning then, and it appeared she had found help. He grinned at his good fortune and ducked down amongst the rocks, waiting.
Sil Dorrien, now in the form of a great dappled-grey mare, charged over the ridge. Rushing down the hillside like a river over rapids, mane and tail churning behind her like a waterfall, with a woman astride her back. Raven hair flying in the wind. Evergreen eyes searching.
His heart stuttered in his chest. He recognised her immediately, of course. How could he not? Those eyes had haunted his nightmares for a hundred years. Her mother’s eyes. He wondered if she would even remember him. He almost hoped not. It would be better if she didn’t have to see this, see what he’d become. Not after all they’d been through together. But she was the one he had come for.
Théon. The uncrowned Queen of Illyol and the Shade King’s daughter.
Chapter Twelve
Alexan couldn’t believe his luck. Not as he watched his prey ride right into his hands. Théon. He’d barely dared to think her name for the last century, and here she was. Almost close enough to touch. As Dorrien checked her stride and drew to a halt, Théon dismounted, eyes flashing over the hillside.
‘Darkling,’ was all she said as she drew her sword. A long, slender Elven blade. Alexan’s heart gave another uneasy stu
tter of recognition. The Sword of the Dawn. Heirloom of the Elvish royal house. Broken in two by the ancient Elf-Queen Benella. He’d watched Théon reforge it in Casting flames after they’d fled Illyol.
There was very little of that broken girl-child left in the calm face before him. As expected, she’d grown into a beautiful woman. She was tall. Though not as tall as her mother, who’d been nearly as tall as he was. And where Diathor had been slender, Théon’s body was corded in lean, powerful muscle. A warrior’s body. Dark where her mother had been fair. Hard where she had been soft. Fierce where she had been gentle. Her father’s daughter, through and through.
Apart from that exquisite face. The straight nose, the elegant jaw, the sharp cheekbones. But it was her eyes that drew Alexan in. Feline. Evergreen. Her mother’s eyes.
Eyes that were bright and alert as they darted over the hillside, searching for threats. He wasn’t surprised she’d caught his scent – he’d been far too dazed to take any care after healing Faolin, and no doubt, the whole hillside was reeking of him.
Behind her, the mare Changed, shimmering and shifting until the silver-haired woman stood in its place. Dorrien approached, poniard out as she scanned the area for danger. Then she disappeared into the hollow where Faolin was hidden, and Alexan heard her loud sigh of relief when she found her brother still breathing. Théon slowed as she neared the hiding spot, her eyes still roving for the source of that scent. She tucked a stray lock of raven hair behind a pointed ear before she too disappeared. Alexan had to strain to hear, but hidden amongst the rocks above, he could just pick out their hushed conversation.
‘A Darkling’s been here,’ Théon murmured.
‘Why would it leave him alive?’
