by Jen McIntosh
She watched as Zorana tore Taelyr’s shirt from his chest, those all-too-familiar tattoos swirling over his shoulders. Simple, yet striking – black dragon-marks to honour their grandfather. To see a Shade run her hands over those shoulders, over those hallowed symbols, in such passionate caresses … it broke her heart.
She watched him tell the Shade Princess where she could find his sister.
Dell was screaming now as Pria sawed off his little finger with a blunt knife. Then his other fingers. His toes. Other parts. Keriath watched, the image seared into her memory, but her mind was racing. It had not been her brother whispering in the night to their enemies. It looked like him. It sounded like him. But someone else looked out from those pearlescent eyes. Someone she did not recognise … a monster wearing his skin.
‘He did it to himself,’ whispered Mazron. ‘Your baby brother did it to himself. He opened the door and invited it in. Stood by and watched as it made its home in his heart.’
She shivered. ‘You’re lying.’
‘Am I?’ challenged Mazron. ‘Your brother is strong. Too strong for me to Enchant. Definitely too strong for me to Enchant from afar. And Zorana is Elf-born, so you can be sure she had nothing to do with it. Besides, your brother came willingly. His mind was already altered beyond recognition when he found us.’
Keriath forced herself to ask, choking on the words, ‘How?’
‘You know how. The power all star-marked share. We can Enchant the minds of others – why not our own?’
Keriath flinched. Such power was forbidden. All Unicorn children knew that. They were taught to fear it long before their powers ever manifested. It was the worst type of self-harm – the deliberate murder of one’s own self. How could he have become so lost that he would even consider such a thing? Her heart broke anew. For whoever Taelyr was now, he was no longer the brother she knew. He was just the monster that had killed him.
‘Why?’
Mazron laughed at her pain. ‘He knew the innocent boy he was could not hope to survive this world unscathed. He was weak and foolish, driven by emotion and sentiment. So the man killed the boy. Replaced him with someone strong and proud, so nothing could ever hurt him again. Now all he values is power, and my sister can give him that. So he does what she asks and does not care for the consequences.’
Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks. Taelyr had been the last hope of their people. If he too had fallen, what chance was there? If the Lord of Revalla was gone, replaced by some monster wearing his face, then what had she fought for? Anguish was a knife twisting in her gut.
She looked at Dell, at the ruined body where her only hope of salvation had once been. He was still alive. Just. His body was so covered in blood that she could hardly recognise him. His breath came in wet, pitiful gasps, but his eyes were still on her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered into his mind. His lips twitched as he tried to smile. His thoughts were incoherent, weak and confused as he slipped in and out of consciousness. But she could read enough.
There was nothing for her to be sorry for. He did not regret any of the choices that had led him to this place. Even knowing that sometimes his choices were not his own, he did not blame her for his suffering.
Guilt and rage and anguish swelled, her power rising in her veins. Magic was fuelled by emotions, and Mazron had just stoked hers to boiling point. She was weak, and it was near impossible to direct her power where she wanted it. Mazron scrabbled for his defences, trying to control her mind. She hissed through gritted teeth, becoming like water – fluid and free, slipping through his fingers as she gathered up all the power she could muster. Panting from the effort, she dug deep, even as Mazron yelled in warning to the Queens. He threw her from his lap, and she crashed to her knees at the top of the dais, but she didn’t take her eyes off Dell as her power built. Because it was not for her own benefit that she called it forth.
‘Thank you.’ And then she poured all that she could muster into Dell’s head. It was a painful death she offered him, but at least it was quick. He cried out once, his body spasming from the agony, and then he was still.
Silence filled the room. The Queens stared down at the corpse in shock. They were not alone. Behind her, Mazron was breathing hard with the effort of restraining himself. Keriath hardly noticed. She stared down at Dell’s corpse. It had been a meaningless act of defiance, with no benefit to herself save soothing her guilty conscience. No doubt Mazron would make her suffer for it later. A choked sob escaped her lips. What had she done?
Three pairs of blood-red eyes turned on her and, as one, the Queens hissed in outrage. Then Mazron was between them, placing his prize behind him, his hands just a little too firm as he fought to maintain a hold of his temper. He squeezed her wrist once in warning, hard enough to make the bones groan. She took the hint and stayed silent.
‘You were going to kill him anyway,’ he said, cutting over whatever the Queens were about to say.
Ylain bristled. ‘That’s not the point.’
‘She interrupted our fun.’ Pria growled, staring at her intended prey.
A vicious growl ripped out of Mazron. ‘I don’t give a shit. She’s mine, and if you try to take her, you’ll meet the same end as your little friend here,’ he warned, gesturing at Dell’s corpse.
‘You’re not strong enough to take all three of us,’ hissed Talize, itching forward.
‘And you’re not strong enough to kill me,’ he snapped. ‘You kill her, and I’ll tell the King she was here. And I won’t stop him when he tears this place down and buries you beneath it.’
Talize and Pria growled at the threat, but Ylain saw it for what it was: a promise. She silenced the others with a sharp wave of her hand, inclining her head towards the Shade. ‘Fine. But I want her gone from here as soon as possible.’
‘We will leave at dawn,’ Mazron offered.
‘You will leave now,’ snarled Talize.
The Shade turned his pale gaze upon her, and Keriath almost smiled as the Queen flinched in terror. ‘We will leave at dawn,’ he repeated, ‘for you and I have unfinished business to discuss.’ It was Talize who had opened Zorana’s missive then. The Queen blanched, glancing to the others in supplication. But Ylain only sniffed and turned away. Pria shook her head in frustration and followed suit.
‘So be it,’ Talize spat, barely repressing the violent trembling that had overtaken her luscious frame.
Bowing, Mazron dragged his prize from the room without a word.
The sentinels beyond the chamber were still in place, but they did not even glance in their direction as Mazron hauled Keriath away. As soon as they were alone, he stopped, slamming her against the nearest wall by the throat.
‘That,’ he hissed, ‘was incredibly stupid.’ She stared back into his eerie eyes and said nothing. His grip about her throat tightened, like he was fighting the urge to choke the life from her. Then he deflated, shaking his head in frustration. ‘Was he worth it? Your Darkling? Was he worth wasting the last of your power? And for what? The mercy of a quick death?’
Keriath kept her face impassive. ‘I wouldn’t expect a Shade to understand.’
‘Shade is just the magic in my blood,’ he said, smirking; ‘it has nothing to do with my heart.’
‘I wasn’t aware you had one.’
Mazron chuckled, ghosting the breath of a kiss against her cheek. ‘I understand mercy and guilt, love and loyalty,’ he whispered against her skin. ‘I just don’t waste time on them.’ Then his hand slipped higher, squeezing her jaw in his crushing grip as he pressed the full weight of his body against her in warning. ‘And for the last time, it’s Prince Mazron. I suggest you remember, or things will become increasingly unpleasant for you. Now come. Time to get you cleaned up.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
They lingered another three days at the cabin. Three days for Renila to regain her strength. The nights were cold and long, and growing longer. She and Arian had shared the tiny bed, huddled together for
warmth. Ornak had tried sleeping on the floor by the fire for all of an hour before storming out, grumbling that bare earth wasn’t just softer but also had fewer splinters. As far as Renila could see, Alvar hadn’t slept at all. Not that it seemed to affect him.
Renila dreamed of Erion every night. Dreamed of thunder and starlight. Flame and shadow warring in the sky. The hum of some ancient, terrible power – burning like ice held against wet skin. Air shimmering. A barrier between them. And eyes. Brown eyes. Pale eyes. Black eyes. All watching. Always watching.
Her son, vanishing into darkness.
The first night, she woke in a cold sweat, gasping for air with his name on her lips. Alvar had unsheathed his sword and was halfway across the room, Ornak appearing at the door, axe in hand, less than a heartbeat later, before Arian had waved them off. Then the Phoenix woman had put her arms around Renila and hugged her close through the storm of her weeping. And every night since, when Renila woke screaming, that warm hand found her in the darkness and held tight until the fear had passed, and sleep claimed her once more.
When morning came, Renila was starving. She’d always had a tendency to eat when she was upset or stressed, but this new voracious appetite had taken even her by surprise. When she’d mentioned it, Arian had only laughed and pointed to how much she and Ornak ate.
‘Magic is energy,’ she said. ‘We have to fuel it somehow.’
Despite that, there seemed to be little risk of anyone going hungry. Ornak was not just a skilled hunter, able to produce fresh meat practically on demand, but an excellent cook, creating hearty and delicious meals from seemingly poor fare.
But Renila was growing impatient, and Alvar’s memories churned in her mind. Her confusion mingled with frustration until her emotions were near boiling point. Her companions all seemed to sense it, but it was Ornak who took matters into his own hands – extending one of Arian’s twin swords, hilt first.
‘Time you learned how to use this.’
Alvar glanced up. ‘She knows how to use it.’
‘She knew how to use it,’ corrected Arian.
Alvar glared, opening his mouth to offer a curt response. But Renila barely noticed, too busy eyeing the offered hilt with trepidation. Ornak watched her, ignoring the other two bickering, his head cocked to the side as he considered her. She almost flinched from that keen gaze. From the understanding that dawned there. Nodding to himself, he flipped the blade in his hand and buried the point in the soft earth, crouching down so he could look her in the eye.
‘You’re afraid you might hurt me,’ he said. ‘You can feel it now – that power pounding through your veins. It scares you. You don’t know how to control it and that terrifies you. But your fear is the only thing stopping you. That power is as much a part of you as your hands or your feet. Accept it. Embrace it. Wield it. When you understand it, you control it, and it will never control you again.’
‘What if I can’t?’
‘You can,’ he promised. Then he stood and offered his hand instead. Renila looked up at him, vaguely aware that Alvar and Arian were watching the exchange, yet not really caring for their opinions. He had spoken with such unflinching belief, such quiet certainty, that her breath caught in her throat. Not words to soothe a damaged ego, to strengthen fragile confidence. Just the simple truth, as he saw it.
An image flickered through her mind.
An autumn afternoon – the training ring in Gaelan’s keep bathed in golden light. Farran’s steady, reassuring voice drifting across the courtyard, punctuated by the sound of wood striking wood. Erion grinning as he blocked an overhand blow, his eyes bright and cheeks flushed. Pride and happiness shining on Farran’s face when he praised the boy for his rapid improvements.
The image faded. Ornak watched, a glimmer of understanding gleaming in his smiling eyes. His fingers fluttered in challenge, taunting her. Daring her.
She placed her hand in his. Allowed him to pull her to her feet. Returned his feral grin with a shy smile of her own. Took the offered sword.
‘Show me.’
Ornak, it transpired, was a surprisingly adept teacher. He was patient, but firm. Tolerant, but unyielding. Arian’s assessment seemed accurate – his instructions were punctuated with a broad range of colourful curses, and he had no manners to speak of. But Renila could tell his brusque demeanour concealed a kind heart. Not that the knowledge made his lessons any less painful. He pushed her hard, and she invariably limped away from their bouts.
Alvar tried to intervene all of once, before Ornak sent him packing, complaining the Immortal Prince unsettled his student. Renila had argued in Alvar’s defence, though secretly she’d been quite relieved to lose the debate. Ornak, it would appear, was also perceptive. He was quick to play the fool, content to let people see him as a gruff, ignorant mercenary. But as her lessons progressed, Renila realised there was far more to the rough-spoken Dragon than he let on. She couldn’t help but think how much Erion would have liked him – and how much he would have enjoyed watching her suffer through Ornak’s sessions.
‘You’re getting better,’ Ornak noted on the third day of their lessons, parrying.
She twisted away, but he caught her sword with his own and wrenched it from her grip. She could almost hear Erion laughing at her. With a sigh, she trudged across the muddy clearing to pick it up. Ornak got there first and grinned at her. Renila scowled. ‘Clearly.’
‘When I taught Arian how to use this thing, it took her a month just to figure out how to hold it properly,’ he said. He threw a mischievous wink towards the Phoenix woman watching from a nearby rock.
Arian snorted, shaking her head in disgust. ‘It was three weeks.’
‘Pedant,’ he chuckled. Then he held out the sword to Renila, his bright gaze serious for once. ‘The point is – your body remembers what your mind has forgotten. The instincts are all there – how you hold the sword, how you stand, how you move – but you’re overthinking it. Just relax. Trust yourself.’
She took the sword once more. ‘How long did it take you to learn to fight like this?’
‘I never stop learning,’ he admitted, lunging for her. ‘Every battle is a classroom. Every wound a lesson.’
She dodged, ducking under his arm and striking towards his exposed back. ‘Except the fatal ones.’
‘True for me – not so much for you.’ He chuckled, twisting to block her.
She hissed in frustration, dancing back out of reach. ‘How long until you learned enough to stay alive?’
‘My father gave me my first sword when I was five years old,’ he said, giving ground as she rushed him. He was bigger, true, but not as fast or nimble. ‘Killed my first Darkling at fifteen. You do the maths.’
A hopeful smile rose to her lips when he struggled to parry. ‘That’s a long time.’
‘That was a hundred years ago,’ he countered, shoving her back and kicking her into the dirt. In her head, she could see Erion sighing in frustration at her mistake. Ornak waved a finger in her face. ‘We went over this yesterday. You can’t match me in brute strength. So?’
She picked herself up, gasping, ‘So avoid putting myself in a situation where you can overpower me. I know. But I haven’t had a hundred years to learn this stuff.’
‘Yes, you have,’ said a quiet voice from the cabin door. She glanced round to see Alvar leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded over his chest. ‘You spent thirty years at the Academy, training under the supervision of the best tutors the Immortal Empire had to offer. Then you spent the next seventy years training with me.’
‘Practice in a sparring ring doesn’t prepare you for a battle,’ Ornak argued.
Alvar’s gaze didn’t shift from Renila’s face. ‘I know. But I thought having the skill to knock my arse in the dirt would at least give her a fighting chance.’
‘You think highly of yourself, don’t you, princeling?’ said Ornak. There was no denying the challenge in his voice.
Those thunderstorm eyes flickered to the
Dragon. ‘I’ve survived more battles and bloodshed than you’ve drawn breaths, boy. I haven’t faced my equal with a sword since the day I taught Sephiron how to hold one.’
‘Probably not something you want to brag about too much.’ The taunting grin on Ornak’s face was diabolical.
Thunder rumbled ominously in the background.
‘Here’s a thought – why don’t you just whip them out and measure?’ Arian sighed, getting to her feet. Ornak winked at her, a hand reaching for his belt. She levelled a flat stare in his direction. ‘As entertaining as that might be, I’m not sure you’d like the result.’ He opened his mouth to argue, his face reddening at the smirk on Alvar’s face, but she continued. ‘Stop wasting time. We’ve been here a week already – we should have moved on days ago. I only agreed to stay longer so you could make sure she wouldn’t be a liability, and she looks competent to me.’
Ornak shook his head. ‘She’s not ready.’
‘She doesn’t need to be able to storm Dar Kual single-handed, Ornak,’ Arian snapped, throwing her hands in the air. ‘Darklings won’t dare follow us any further into the mountains, and she’ll have the three of us to guard her anyway.’
The Dragon hissed in frustration. ‘My people might not suffer a Darkling to live, but I don’t need to remind you that Nightwalkers rule Ciaron now. All it takes is one of them to get a good look at any of us, and we’ll be up to our eyeballs in shit. She needs to be able to handle herself, especially since you’re too scared to use the Casting.’
‘It would draw every Darkling and Shade for miles around right to us, and you know it.’
