Furyborn

by Claire Legrand

  An eerie silence bled through the room.

  King Bastien stopped reading. Audric snatched the note from his hands.

  “Audric—” snapped the king.

  “‘I’d turn in the dark,’” Audric continued reading, “‘and another would fall. White as bone their faces were, and still, like they’d been caught in the middle of a scream.’”

  The king stormed around the table, ripped the note from Audric’s hands, and crumpled it in his fist. “These northern posts are bitter and cold. A pale face is no strange thing.”

  Audric watched him gravely. “Two survivors from each post can be no coincidence.”

  “Can’t it? Don’t start raving at me about your mad theories, Audric.”

  “The signs have been clear for some time now.” Audric ignored his father and addressed the entire table. “The longer we wait to face them head on, the deadlier the consequences will become.”

  “Signs!” Bastien laughed harshly. “Storms and revolutions in distant lands, soldiers being killed on a border between unfriendly nations. Yes, indeed.” His voice took an unfamiliar, sarcastic turn. “I’ve never heard of such things happening. Truly, we are at the brink of some magical undoing.”

  “And what about Lady Rielle? You cannot look at her performance in the trials and call it anything but extraordinary.”

  “He has a point,” said Tal quietly. “I’ve worked with Rielle for years, and the prophecy—”

  “Magister Belounnon,” King Bastien snapped, “until I have asked for your opinion, you will take care to remain silent in my presence.”

  Tal met the king’s gaze with only a little flare of defiance, but it was enough to make Rielle’s heart swell with love for him.

  “Yes, my king,” Tal replied.

  “The prophecy,” King Bastien continued, looking around at all of them, “cannot even be dependably interpreted. How many official translations of Aryava’s words exist? Twenty? Twenty-five?”

  “Thirty-four,” replied the Archon at once, “though the differences between some are minimal.”

  “But even a single word can mean the difference between a prophecy”—the king shot a dark look at Audric—“and an entertaining story that no learned man takes seriously.”

  Magister Duval’s eyebrows shot up. “Your Majesty, this is rather bold of you to say, in front of the entire council and the Archon himself.”

  “All of whom answer to me, I’ll remind you.” Bastien stalked away to stand before the windows and look out at the setting sun. When at last he turned back around, he looked weary but resolute. “I apologize for my outburst, Your Holiness. I do not think the prophecy a mere story, nor do I think the intelligence of you and your magisters to be anything less than exceptional.”

  The Archon inclined his head. “You are most gracious, my king.”

  “I’ll speak no more of this tonight. Armand?”

  Rielle’s father rose from his chair and joined his king. At the doors, he glanced back once at Rielle, and she saw a flicker of concern in his gray eyes.

  The look frightened her.

  Ever since the trials had begun, with Rielle’s life imperiled every week, her father had kept himself closed off from her, even more than usual. She saw him only during their mornings at the obstacle course, and sometimes in the halls of Baingarde. Encircled by her guards, she would greet him politely, and he would return the sentiment with a mere nod.

  And so even the smallest change in expression on that hard face was of note.

  Something about the message from the north, and the king’s reaction, had pricked at the inconquerable Lord Commander Dardenne.

  As the council rose with rustlings and murmurs, Audric turned to Rielle, then glanced at Ludivine. “We must speak in private,” he said quietly. “Now.”

  “Audric, my love?” Queen Genoveve extended her hand toward him. Her brocaded gray gown caught the red light of the setting sun and cast strange, harsh lines across her face. “Come with me. Your uncle and I thought we could all enjoy some tea together.”

  “So you can scold me again and speak ill of Lady Rielle?” Audric said it loudly enough for everyone still in the room to hear. “I have far better things to do.”

  Then he threw his mother a swift, angry look and left the hall.

  Rielle nearly burst out laughing at the affronted expression on Queen Genoveve’s face, but before she could, Ludivine took her firmly by the elbow and rushed her out of the hall.

  Only once in the familiar quiet of Audric’s rooms did Rielle’s nervous laughter finally escape. She collapsed on her favorite chaise by the window, a shabby old thing so comfortable that she forbade Audric from ordering another.

  Ludivine sank into her own favorite chair by the fire. “I don’t see what’s so funny, Rielle.”

  “What isn’t funny? The fact that Audric insulted his mother in front of the entire council? Or that your father looked like he was trying to make me drop dead using only the force of his stare?”

  Or that even as the king scolded me, she thought a little wildly, I was talking to an angel in my head?

  “Please don’t make light of my father’s anger,” Ludivine said. “It won’t serve any of us well.”

  “And then,” Rielle continued, “there’s the fact that Audric and I nearly… Well.” She flushed, losing her nerve. “And yet here we all are, acting as if nothing has happened!”

  Audric tensed. “Rielle, can we please not talk about that right now? I know you and Ludivine have discussed it, but there are political ramifications of any changes made to the agreement between our families.”

  “No.” Rielle set her jaw. “I insist we talk about it, this very night. It’s unfair to all of us until we do.”

  Into the silence that followed, Ludivine spoke gently. “She’s right, Audric.”

  Audric leaned heavily against his desk.

  “If I could give up my crown and my duty,” he said, “and leave this place behind, with only you at my side…” He glanced at Rielle. The quiet anguish on his face seized her heart. “I would do it in an instant, with Lu’s blessing.”

  “Abandon your birthright? Leave your country without an heir?” Rielle scoffed, tears standing hot in her eyes. “You’d never dare.”

  “You’re wrong!” He stormed away from them to face the starlit windows, his shoulders high and tense. “I’d do it for you. Sometimes I think I’d betray everything I hold dear for the chance to—”

  His voice broke; he fell silent. Rielle turned away, arms tightly crossed over her front. Audric’s servants had prepared his fire for the night. The crackling flames and popping wood were the only sounds in the room for several long minutes.

  Then Ludivine cleared her throat. “There’s no need to give up anything, you know. Not the crown, and not each other. You would just need to be…discreet.” She smoothed her skirts. “I could help you, as needed.”

  Rielle stared at her. Ludivine had taken her to Garver Randell for a contraceptive tonic, yes, but to hear her suggest such a thing so plainly, as if they were all merely discussing the weather, left Rielle without words.

  Audric laughed in astonishment. “Lu, are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

  “That you be together?” Ludivine raised an eyebrow. “Yes. In secret, of course, but soon. And as often as possible, so I’m spared the agony of your tortured pining.” She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes. “It’s exhausting to witness. I’ve reached my limit.”

  Heart racing, not daring to look at Audric, Rielle breathed, “I can’t believe you’re actually saying this.”

  “Why not? I’ve told you both how I feel about the situation.” Ludivine smiled, eyes still closed. “Or do you doubt my word?”

  “No, it’s not that, it’s just—” The images crowding Rielle’s mind made a delighted heat
climb up her cheeks. “Wouldn’t you be embarrassed?”

  “That my dearest friends could be happier than they’ve ever been? Why would that embarrass me?”

  “Maybe ‘embarrass’ isn’t the right word.” Rielle did look at Audric, then. Half in shadow, he frowned at the floor.

  “If we’re discovered,” he said at last, “even if we explained that you knew and approved, it could be humiliating for all of us, but especially for you.”

  “Oh, is that what could happen?” said Ludivine blandly. “I hadn’t realized.”

  Rielle let out a rush of nervous laughter. “We would just have to…not be discovered.”

  Audric scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s not as simple as that.”

  “Of course it is.” Ludivine watched him fondly. “We’ll be careful, and you’ll… Well, Audric, you’ll have to get good at lying somehow.”

  “And your family? What about them? If my mother finds out? Or your father? He’ll be studying us closely now.”

  “I can handle my family.”

  For a long time, Audric stared at the crackling flames.

  “We can’t,” he said at last, his voice heavy. “Something is happening in Borsvall. The attacks on the border, that report I read… House Sauvillier is our strongest defense against whatever might come south. While we sort out what’s happening, we need your father and his soldiers to remain loyal to the crown. And they surely will not if they discover that Rielle and I are having an affair.”

  Rielle struggled to speak past a rising despair. “But, Audric—”

  “What did you tell my father, weeks ago? Enough lies have been told, enough secrets kept?” He glanced at her. “This is not how I want us to begin.”

  “And I don’t care how we begin,” she protested, stepping toward him, “as long as we do.”

  In the blazing silence, Audric’s gaze dropped to her lips and then away.

  “Perhaps,” Ludivine said after a moment, “you can simply wait a while. Until the danger at the border has passed and my father’s temper has cooled.”

  Rielle threw up her hands. “And then what? He’ll suddenly be happy when we tell him what will happen next? Sorry, Lord Dervin, but your daughter won’t be queen after all?”

  “No, he won’t be happy,” replied Ludivine evenly, “but he won’t be as angry.”

  “And the kingdom will hopefully be stable, then, and safe,” finished Audric. “Whatever attacked our border will have been found out and vanquished.” He took a deep breath, dragged a hand through his curls.

  Rielle moved to stand before him. She refused to touch him, though her body ached to.

  “Is this really what you want?” she whispered.

  “What I want?” He smiled sadly, moved as if to touch her, then drew back. “Of course not. But it’s what we must do, Rielle.”

  He has the eyes of a cow, Corien sneered. Soft and unthinking.

  Rielle’s wrath rose swift and hot. And you have the tongue of a serpent. Cruel and repellent.

  Corien retreated, a sulky bend to his presence.

  “Rielle, I’m sorry,” Ludivine murmured, rising from her chair. “But I think Audric’s right. This is the wisest—”

  “Lu, I’m thankful for your selflessness and for your friendship,” Rielle said tightly, a terrible pain lodged in her throat, “but I think I need to be alone.”

  Then she tore herself away from Audric and left the room.

  34

  Eliana

  “Because of your generosity and teaching, my lord, it will take more than a fall from a tower to kill me. One more day, and I will have them.”

  —Message written by the Invictus assassin Rahzavel to His Holy Majesty, the Emperor of the Undying

  Eliana staggered back to avoid Rahzavel’s flying sword, stumbled over a chair, and fell hard into Navi’s arms.

  Simon lunged in front of them, his own sword raised to strike. The two blades crashed together and caught.

  “Navi, get her out of here!” Simon bellowed over his shoulder, just before Rahzavel let out a harsh scream and swung his sword around to free himself. Simon stumbled against a pillar, kicked a chair into Rahzavel’s path.

  Navi grabbed Eliana’s wrist, and together they raced into the crowd. Bystanders had noticed the fight and hovered nearby. Navi wove through them, shoving at bodies twice her size when they didn’t move fast enough.

  “Eliana!” Rahzavel called after them, his words punctuated by grunts and the clashes of blades. “You can’t run from me! I’m like you, don’t you see? I can’t be killed!”

  Fear was a fantastic energizer; Eliana’s head cleared with every step. Soon she was the one dragging Navi after her.

  “In here,” she gasped, turning Navi into the maze of the fighting pits. Narrow paths separated each cage from the next; a turn past one cage, then another, and they were in the thick of the brawls. A bare-chested fighter threw his opponent against the wire wall to Eliana’s right. The noise was tremendous, the crowd a seething mass on all sides.

  “Back to the apartments,” Navi cried. “We’ll be safe there!”

  “If a fall wouldn’t kill him,” Eliana replied, “then we’ll never be safe from him again, not until he’s dead.”

  I’m like you! I can’t be killed!

  But he was wrong, wasn’t he? She could be killed. She wasn’t completely invincible. If he stuck her through the heart with a sword, she would die just like any beast that bleeds.

  And him… His fall off the maidensfold tower in Orline must have been a lucky one. He’d hit the water at just the right angle, avoided the rocks scattering the river. The Emperor had fed him a regimen of drugs, conditioned his mind and body over the years to withstand impossible abuse.

  “Could he be an angel?” Navi shouted over the din.

  Eliana grimaced. “Knowing our luck?”

  They emerged from the pits onto the open floor. Eliana ran for a set of twisting iron stairs nearby. As she reached for the railing, a body flew out of the crowd and slammed into her side, knocking both her and Navi to the floor.

  Eliana pushed herself up, head spinning. “Navi?”

  She lay unconscious two feet away, beside the inert body that had hit them. She must have hit her head against the bottom stair. Eliana crawled toward her.

  A sword struck her across her back once, then twice. Blazing pain ripped through her body. She screamed, tightened her grip on Arabeth, turned, caught Rahzavel’s sword with her dagger.

  He leered down at her, pressing hard against their joined blades until she was nearly flat on the floor. Her bleeding back was a twisting plane of fire.

  “Hello again.” His voice rattled; his ravaged face stretched into a madman’s grin. He stomped down hard on her thigh, then on her ribs. As she screamed, blinking away starbursts of pain, he raised his sword with wild eyes. She plunged Arabeth into the top of his foot, then rolled out from under him right as his sword slammed into the ground.

  Navi shook herself awake, then looked in horror at something past Eliana’s shoulder. “Watch out!”

  Eliana turned, ducked in time to avoid Rahzavel’s sword. The tip of the blade caught her cheek. Blood spurted hot across her face and arms. She thrust out with Arabeth; he bashed it out of her hand with his sword. She spun out a hard kick at his chest; he grabbed her leg, twisted, slammed her to the ground.

  Before his fall, he would have fought her in silence, every movement swift and calculated.

  Now he laughed, yelped playfully when one of her daggers caught his skin, clucked his tongue when she missed. A tight crowd had gathered around them, boxing them in with pumping fists and wordless, rhythmic cries hungry for violence.

  Eliana grabbed a carving knife from a nearby table, whirled to throw it at him. He knocked it easily aside. She found another one, turned.

 
; She dropped the knife. It clattered useless to the ground. Swaying on her feet, she reached out for support, found nothing, fell to her hands and knees.

  Fidelia.

  Fog blackened her vision. The nausea returned, sweeping through her with startling violence.

  “Look at her!” Rahzavel cried, dancing gleefully around her prone form. “The famous Dread of Orline!”

  The crowd responded with a chorus of jeers.

  “Eliana, get up!” Navi frantically tugged on her arms. Eliana tried to stand; her limbs gave out, and she crashed to the floor.

  “They’re here.” Her stomach wrung itself into a knot. The world spun, tilting right then left. Whoever or whatever was pinning her down, it was wrong. It didn’t fit; it didn’t belong here.

  “Run,” she gasped out, groping for Navi’s hand. “They’ll find you.”

  “Who will?” Navi’s voice was full of panicked tears.

  A furious cry behind them made Eliana blearily turn.

  Simon dropped down from the stairs above, crashing feet first into Rahzavel. The assassin dropped hard, then rolled away with a feral peal of laughter and sprang back to his feet. Simon advanced ruthlessly on him, his scarred face ferocious with anger.

  Then, turning to block one of Rahzavel’s thrusts, Simon glanced over and found Eliana on the floor. Their gazes locked.

  The world seemed to stop. Eliana’s breath caught in her aching chest.

  They had been here before—not in the fighting pits of Sanctuary, but in a similar moment of danger and flight.

  Of separation.

  The certainty of that—like suddenly recalling a lyric long forgotten—opened an unfamiliar chasm in her heart.

  A flicker of some unnameable sadness shook Simon’s face. Did he feel it too?

  “Run!” he roared at her.

  Reality returned. Time spun forward, blistering and unkind.

  Eliana shoved her way into the crowd. She heard Navi yell her name, heard a harsh cry, hoped it wasn’t Simon. She searched for another set of stairs that would take her back to the third floor. She would get Remy and leave. They would run as fast as they could, for as far as they could. She would shave their heads; they would get new clothes. They could make it to Astavar like that, disguised and unrecognizable.