Furyborn

by Claire Legrand

  Sometimes, she thought, the hunter must not prowl, but rather wait. And watch.

  She slid low in her seat, propped her boots up on the table. It felt good to be working again, to settle in and watch the dirty cogs of Sanctuary turn around her. Since her bombardier attack, she had felt unlike herself, shaken loose and off-balance. But this…this was familiar.

  It was a good spot: she could still see the bar, the fighting pits, and at least one of the entrances to Sanctuary, though not the one they’d come through two days before. She imagined there must be all manner of rat holes leading in and out of such a vile nest. Twenty feet away, a brown-skinned woman brooded over her cup. Two tables away and to the left, a group of men and one pale woman with a head of wild black braids howled with laughter.

  To Eliana’s right: an ebony-skinned man and a freckled woman, finishing off bowls of stew. One of the fights had ended. A singing crowd raised the bloody winner to their shoulders and began an impromptu parade.

  Eliana took another sip from her drink, eyes roving about the crowded dark room over the rim of her mug—then froze.

  She blinked a few times as if trying to clear her vision of a speck. A sudden, heavy pressure pinned her to the bench, making her head spin. A feeling of wrongness filled the air, a faint sour scent, like someone had lashed a whip of ill intent through the room.

  Hard chills surged through her body.

  She remembered that feeling, that scent, from Orline—from the night she had tried to save the abducted child, and from the night her mother had disappeared. It was more violent now, the feeling. Closer. Urgent. She gripped the table’s edge, fighting the desire to lay her head on the table. The world teetered, knocked askew.

  Beneath the table, Eliana found Arabeth and felt a little better as her fingers wrapped around the dagger’s hilt.

  The chill across her shoulders became a sharp pang of warning.

  She forced up her gaze.

  The woman who’d been sitting alone, frowning over her drink, was gone. Her ale lay spilled on the tabletop, dripping onto the ground. Her mug rolled to a stop under the chair in which she had been sitting.

  But she could have simply left the table.

  Mouth dry, heart pounding, Eliana quickly ran back over the path of people she had been observing only a few seconds earlier, before the world had changed.

  The woman with the black braids was gone. The man who had been sitting next to her slapped her empty chair, wiping tears from his eyes as one of the drinkers vomited.

  And the man and woman who had been finishing off their stew—the man now sat alone, his head in his bowl as he slurped up the last drops of his meal. The woman’s bowl hit the ground and shattered; the man looked up, frowning in bewilderment, then craned his neck to peer through the crowd.

  Three women, all gone in a matter of seconds.

  Three women, gone like her mother.

  Eliana licked her lips, her blood hot and humming. She unsheathed Arabeth and rose to her feet.

  They were here. Fidelia.

  They come in the night. They come every seven days.

  Eliana rose, slipped through the crowd as quickly as possible without drawing attention, scanned the room. She let her eyes unfocus.

  There.

  To her right, a dark, hooded figure moved swiftly across the room. Eliana thought she saw another person at its side. The woman who had been drinking alone? But as soon as Eliana tried to focus on that particular shape, her vision tilted.

  She leaned hard against a nearby pillar—sticky and caked with filth—as a wave of nausea ripped through her. She gritted her teeth, pushing through it. The figure had been moving toward the eastern wall. If she didn’t move quickly, she’d lose the trail.

  A hand caught her wrist. “Going somewhere?”

  Eliana turned to glare at Simon. “Let me go, or I’ll lose them.”

  “Who?” Beside Simon, Navi peered out from under her hood. “What’s happening?”

  “One moment these women were there, right there in front of me, and the next—” Eliana staggered against Simon as the sick feeling returned. He caught her around the waist, kept her from falling. “God, that’s annoying,” she bit out, tears smarting in her eyes. “I can’t think for two seconds without feeling sick. What are these people doing to me?”

  Simon peered closely at her face. “Who? Someone’s hurting you?”

  “Fidelia.” She leaned against the solid length of his torso, suddenly glad he was there. If he hadn’t come, she would have been a pile on the floor. “Camille said they take women, and girls, just like the people in Orline. At least, I think they’re all the same. Angel-worshippers, Camille said. Every seven days. I was going to help her find this girl who worked for her. Then…they came. They’re here. They took three women in a matter of seconds. I don’t understand it.”

  Simon’s piercing blue gaze was intent on her face. “You said they’re doing something to you. Explain.”

  She struggled weakly to break free of him. “Too much to explain, have to find them.”

  “Wrong. We’re going back to Camille’s, and after I dismember her for sending you out here, I’m locking you in the safest room I can find, possibly forever.”

  “Touch her,” she mumbled, “and I’ll dismember you.” It was becoming increasingly difficult to organize her thoughts. “What are you two doing here together, even?” She took unsteady step after unsteady step, frowning at the floor.

  “Navi and I met outside your room,” Simon said. “We discovered you gone, and she insisted on coming with me to find you.”

  “Why were you both there?” Eliana brought a hand to her throbbing temple. “That’s rather odd, isn’t it?”

  “Well, I wanted to look in on you, make sure you’d managed to sleep,” Navi said, her voice light. “Simon?” She looked guilelessly up at him. “Why were you at Eliana’s door in the middle of the night?”

  Simon’s mouth thinned. “This is not the time for—”

  “Not a chance in the Deep that I’m leaving here without finding Fidelia,” Eliana muttered, “and slitting throat after throat until they tell me where my mother is.”

  “A charming image. Now, walk.”

  Eliana dug deep for strength and pulled free of Simon’s grip. Without him holding her up, the world turned upside down. She collapsed at once, but Simon caught her before she could hit the ground.

  “What’s wrong with her?” came Navi’s worried voice.

  “Eliana?” Simon’s hand cupped her cheek. “What does it feel like, what’s happening to you? If you don’t tell me, I can’t help you.”

  She took three long, shallow breaths to quell the sick feeling rising in her throat, then glared up at him with watery eyes. “This is the first real lead I’ve had since leaving Orline,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m not going to give it up. Don’t make me hurt you, Simon. I’m not keen to.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

  “God, do you ever shut up?” She tried to shove past him, but Navi was the one to stop her that time.

  “Eliana, stop this,” she said quietly. “Let’s go back. It isn’t safe out here.”

  “But I can find my mother,” Eliana insisted, “and all the others who have been taken.” She glanced at Simon. “Including people from Red Crown.”

  “Unimportant,” Simon said. “Our priority is getting Navi to Astavar. Once that’s done, I’ll help you find your mother. As we agreed.”

  “Or I could go find her right now. By the time we get to Astavar, it could be too late.”

  “A risk you knew when you accepted my offer.”

  “Why do you care about me staying with you, anyway? If it’s a fighter you want, Camille has dozens of sellswords to pick from.”

  The words said, Eliana’s mind began to clear, cutting thro
ugh her muddled senses. Why does he care indeed? When she looked back at Simon, his carefully implacable face told her the truth: she’d hit upon a nerve.

  “What is it about me,” she said quietly, taking one step toward him, then another, “that makes you want to keep me close?”

  Navi looked curiously back and forth between them. Simon opened his mouth, hesitated.

  Then a voice rattled from the shadows underneath the nearby staircase: “Because you’re special, Eliana Ferracora. And he wants you for his own. Just as I do.”

  Eliana’s mouth went dry at the sound of that voice. She knew it, though now it rasped rather than purred.

  A slim figure came into the light, wearing a tattered black uniform and frayed crimson cloak made nearly unrecognizable by the caked mud and bloodstains marring the once-fine fabric.

  “Rahzavel,” Eliana whispered in horror. Even Simon seemed dumbstruck. “You’re alive.”

  The assassin grinned, his pale face marked with a long, swollen scar that ran down from his temple, bissected his face, and disappeared into his collar. His white hair hung in matted clumps.

  “Alive,” he agreed, “and so very excited to kill you.”

  Then he ripped his sword from the sheath at his waist, raised it with a horrible hungry cry, and swung hard for Eliana’s neck.

  33

  Rielle

  “I’d hoped the recent news wouldn’t reach you for several more days. It is true, however, about Prince Audric and the Dardenne girl. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you in person. Stay in Belbrion, guard the north. Patience, my son. All will be as it should, and soon.”

  —Letter from Lord Dervin Sauvillier to his son, Merovec

  May 30, Year 998 of the Second Age

  The doors to King Bastien’s council hall banged open.

  Rielle shot to her feet. She had been tensely waiting in a hard, uncomfortable chair for a solid hour under the equally tense eyes of her guard. During that hour she had prayed for the hasty arrival of the king, so they could get the inevitable explosion over with.

  Now, however, with the king storming to his seat—the Archon, the queen, her father, every member of the Magisterial Council, and Lord Dervin Sauvillier accompanying him—Rielle passionately wished she could return to her lonely chair and sit there for the rest of the day, unbothered.

  At least Audric and Ludivine had come in as well, standing at opposite ends of the table.

  “Lady Rielle,” began the king, his voice tight as he stood behind the enormous Privy Council table, “I have no idea where to begin.”

  “Well,” said Lord Dervin, the words bursting out of him in a razor-thin voice, “perhaps we can start by discussing Lady Rielle’s willful abuse of power during her latest trial. Or else, her flagrant disregard for the sanctity of our children’s engagement—”

  “Lord Dervin,” the king snapped, “when I want you to speak, I will ask you to do so.”

  The man fell silent with a curt nod.

  King Bastien glared at the table for a long moment, then turned his angry gaze onto Rielle.

  It’s just King Bastien. She made herself meet his eyes, reminding herself over and over that this man was not only a king. He was also Audric’s father. She had grown up running through the halls of his home, shared a bed with his son and niece when they were all too young for it to be thought ill of.

  “What,” he began quietly, “were you thinking out there?”

  She hesitated, reminded herself to keep her voice clear and calm. “The truth, my king?”

  “Yes, Lady Rielle. Please, for the love of God, tell me the truth.”

  “I wanted to show the people what I am capable of. We’ve already discussed how important that is, have we not? That they think well of me, that they see my power out in the open and also see that it is nothing to fear.”

  The king’s expression remained implacable. “Continue.”

  “It seemed to me that the best way to show everyone that I am not only succeeding in the trials, but actually growing stronger because of them, was to demonstrate my ability to manipulate two elements simultaneously.” She resolved to look at neither Sloane, who sat rigid and pale at the council table, nor Tal, whose urgent gaze she could feel like the quiet pull of panic.

  “What you’re saying, Lady Rielle,” said Queen Genoveve, her expression caught between amusement and something darker, “is that you wanted to show off.”

  Well, they’ve got you pegged, haven’t they?

  Corien’s soft laughter pricked goose bumps from Rielle’s flesh.

  “And to demonstrate that my control is remarkable enough that a deadly threat can hover mere inches from someone,” Rielle answered, glancing at the Archon, “and I can ensure no harm befalls them, even so.”

  The queen raised her eyebrows. “Remarkable?”

  “I think my power is deserving of the word, don’t you?”

  Tense silence reigned. Rielle glanced at Tal; he nodded at her with a small smile.

  Her heart was a drum, steady and triumphant. “As for showing off… I think any human who can still work magic in this world understands the urge to embrace that gift and let it shine for all to see.”

  “I do not understand that urge.” Rafiel Duval, Grand Magister of the Firmament, brown-skinned with black braids, sat with impeccable posture beside Tal. He wore windsinger robes of sky blue and storm gray. “Power does not exist to be flaunted. It exists to be tamed.”

  “We disagree, then, Magister Duval. Now that I am free to use my power as I see fit, it feels stronger and healthier than ever.”

  “You mean, now that you may use your power as the king sees fit.” Ludivine turned imploring eyes to Rielle. “Don’t you, Rielle?”

  Rielle flushed, realizing her mistake.

  Not a mistake, Corien said quickly. You said what you really think, my dear.

  “Forgive me, my queen, my king.” Rielle bowed her head. “Lady Ludivine is right. Of course I misspoke.”

  The king sat heavily in his chair. “And the creature you created. The dragon. What of that?”

  “I think we can all agree,” Audric began, “that Lady Rielle demonstrated incredible control—”

  “Hold your tongue, Audric,” said the king. “Lady Rielle can defend herself.”

  “But, darling, don’t you remember?” Queen Genoveve’s cold gaze did not match the sweetness of her voice. “Our son has a hard time keeping his tongue to himself when Lady Rielle is near.”

  A burning flush climbed up Rielle’s body. The Archon turned a delicate cough into his sleeve.

  Audric was the first to speak, his voice low and furious. “Mother, do you really want to have that conversation right now?”

  “Well, I certainly don’t,” the king answered with a sharp look at his wife. Then he glanced past her. “My apologies, Ludivine.”

  Ludivine gave him a warm smile. “It is nothing, Uncle. A mistake made during fraught times.” Then she came to Rielle and gently took her hand before turning back to the council table. “I bear no grudge against Lady Rielle.” She extended her other hand to Audric, who approached after a moment’s hesitation. “Nor do I bear a grudge against my cousin, the prince.”

  Lord Dervin’s mouth twisted as he took in the sight of the three of them standing united before the king.

  “Were you going to kill me?”

  Rielle startled to hear the Archon’s mild voice. “I…I beg your pardon, Your Holiness?”

  His unblinking smile crept inside her like a nightmare. “I could feel it, you know. I could feel the empirium moving inside that dragon as it licked my face. It was angry at me.” He cocked his head, considering her. “You were angry at me. For those children, I know.”

  Was this a challenge? Rielle’s hackles rose. “Yes, I was angry. I wanted to frighten you.”

  Lord De
rvin threw up his hands. “My king, is this the talk of someone we can trust to stand beside our children, much less parade about recklessly in front of thousands of people?”

  “Frighten me you did,” the Archon continued, ignoring the outburst and leaning forward across the table. A new light glinted in his eyes. “I didn’t think you would kill me. Not yet. But I wondered how far you’d go.”

  Not yet. A thrill skipped down Rielle’s body. She could not look away from the Archon’s narrow, bright gaze. Those eyes seemed to see everything inside her—the power even now leaping high in her blood, the presence of Corien sitting pensive in her mind, and the truth.

  That truth was this: a dark kernel of regret stewed inside her, and if she could go back and live the trial over again, that hard black knot might just be enough to change her mind. To not stay the dragon’s claws and instead let it feed.

  The Archon’s smile grew, as if he could see Rielle’s thoughts plainly on her face.

  A sharp knock on the great hall doors disrupted the agitated silence, and when a page entered, Rielle relaxed slightly, glad for the distraction. Audric stood near, arms tense at his sides. She wanted to turn in to him, to hide her face in the warmth of his chest. She didn’t want to hide there forever, just for a while. Was it so wrong to wish for that?

  “Father?” Audric’s voice carried a new note of worry. “What is it?”

  Rielle glanced up at the king. He held a small, curled slip of paper—a message from the royal aviary—and on his face was a stark absence of expression. He had retreated somewhere; he did not want to be reading this note in front of an audience.

  “Three attacks,” he said flatly, “along the border. Castle d’Avitaine. The Castle of the Three Towers. Castle Barberac.” He paused, his mouth in a hard line. “Seventy-three Celdarian soldiers have been killed. Six—two from each post—survived and fled south to the nearest villages.”

  “My God.” Queen Genoveve’s hand went to her throat. “Did their reports include what attacked them? Or who?”

  “‘It came during the night,’” read the king. “‘It came without sound and without warning.’”