The Broken Realm

by Sarah M. Cradit

  7

  The Rookery

  Alasyr Ravenwood thundered through the starlit halls of The Rookery, chaos resounding in every knock of his heavy boots against the dampened stone.

  He had never, in all his life, felt such powerful rage. It had so many sources he knew not where to best direct it. Ravenna. His mother, father. The Derehams. That girl with the tainted blood and barbed tongue in Wulfsgate.

  How was he the only one who still concerned himself with Ravenna’s fate? The search for her, if one could call it that, had been haphazard and brief. How quickly the conversation had shifted from finding her to repudiating her. All efforts were now on preparing Ryandyr to take her place. Ryandyr! She was a child, and Ravenna was... was...

  Alasyr leaned over the balustrade and launched a silent scream into the howling wind.

  “Your anger will first consume you. Then destroy you.”

  Alasyr froze at the sound of his father’s voice.

  “I see you take flight and soar down to the world of men, in search of answers. You’ll find none, Alasyr. Only pain.”

  He tried to speak, to defend himself, but it was as if his mouth was bound with rope.

  A cold hand settled between the blades of his shoulders. “Ryandyr will make a fine High Priestess, and you will cast your lot once more. I cannot say for sure whether the magic is so fickle, but I have always believed it prefers the brothers to the men less closely related. It certainly worked in my favor.”

  Alasyr grimaced without turning. He found his words. “Do not worry after me, Father. I will do my duty.”

  “You wish you could perform this duty with Ravenna.”

  Alasyr didn’t trust his father. He trusted his mother even less. Whatever faith he had in either of them was thrown aside at their quickness to abandon Ravenna. “I wish Ravenna was still here, and that her leaving had not torn us apart.”

  “Torn us apart?” Argentyn dropped his hand and laughed. “She has torn only herself apart, with her childish whims. We know where your sister is, just as you do. She chose that fate for herself, and there is no returning from such a choice. That is our way. She knew this.”

  “You know where she is?”

  “I know with whom she was gone, and that is enough for me.”

  Alasyr half turned. “Why allow such a slight from the Derehams to go unanswered?”

  “You know why.” Argentyn stepped forward and wrapped his fingers around the damp stone edge. “I will not toss aside an alliance that has aided us for centuries for your sister. For anyone. Nor will your mother. And I daresay, neither will the Derehams. We have both lost our heirs, and are doing what is needed to rectify that. We are, for once, united in something.”

  “So you would not take her back, if she returned?”

  Argentyn’s cheekbones flexed as he swallowed. “Not unless she was dragged wounded and dying from the lair of a wulf to refute what I know to be true.”

  “But what if you and Mother are wrong? And she did not leave willingly?”

  “We’ve discussed this, Alasyr. It is not wrong for you to love your kin, but dwelling on the actions of a traitor will tempt you to be one as well.”

  “Father, that is not—”

  Argentyn’s smile was ice. “Channel what remains of your love into looking forward. For Ravenna ceased to exist when she chose life with man over a life of greatness.”

  Alasyr dropped his eyes. “Yes, Father.”

  * * *

  Adynora stroked the silver hair of the midnight goat. Her jeweled fingers were a symphony of shimmering sounds as she ran them down the long, groomed mane of the only four-legged creature native this high in the Northerland Range.

  The Courtyard of Regents was encased in ice. It was like this most of the year. The trees had only several short weeks to bloom and show the world their gift of life, and then they again retreated, lying dormant beneath the long-reigning hand of winter, until at last their time came again. There were over a hundred ice-covered trees painting the courtyard. Despite this, it was the warmest place beyond the keep. Someone once told Varinya the thick ice created an insular barrier against the cold wind and snow. One of the men. She’d paid him little regard.

  “You lead with fear, with such suppositions,” Adynora said. Her dark hair sparkled against the canvas of white. Varinya had never seen a woman more beautiful than her mother. And now, living in the glory of her beloved First Death—a retirement, men might call it, though men retired not in their prime but in elder age—she could revel in its absolute precision.

  “You know that is not my intent, Mother,” Varinya replied smoothly. “I have faith in Ryandyr. She is my daughter, as Ravenna is.”

  “Was.”

  Varinya bit back a sigh. Repeating the word came with a bitter taste in her mouth. “Was. And I know Ryandyr will make a fine High Priestess. It is only the magic of firstborn daughters I wish I understood better.”

  “Varinya, magic is not for us to understand. That is at the core of its nature. How could we worship something that we could grasp within our minds? We are meant to have faith in it, not to dissect it and define it in the space of the words we are granted.”

  “So you are not worried then? That she will not experience the visions, because she was not first?”

  “I am not,” Adynora said. She ran her palm along the soft chin of the goat. “For it was magic that prepared Ravenna and it will be magic that prepares Ryandyr.”

  “Of course. You are right.” Varinya nodded, eager to show her mother she was only making discussion, not experiencing doubt. “Is there precedent for this? Have you heard tell of any firstborns who defected?”

  Adynora leveled a strange gaze at her daughter. “You tell me. You’ve seen our histories, same as all firstborn daughters.”

  Varinya sputtered. Closed her mouth. Adynora had caught her amidst a conundrum lacking answers. The gift of a vision of their histories was bestowed only upon the firstborn daughter of the High Priestess, and it was through these women that their past lived on into their future. Through them, and them alone.

  But Varinya had never had her vision.

  She dared never even think of this terrible truth, for if her mother were to know this, there would be horrifying consequences. She’d faithfully lied when Adynora asked her if she had at last seen the histories, almost two decades earlier.

  Yes, mother.

  And?

  And they are glorious.

  Yes, daughter. That they are.

  And that was all. No discussion, comparing of stories, examining of pasts. Adynora seemed just as keen on moving on, pleased with the confirmation, desiring nothing more. They never spoke of it again.

  Varinya had let Ravenna tell the same lie, except Varinya could not hide her doubt at her daughter’s deception. Perhaps it was her own failure, which she had hoped would die with her. She was terrified to pass this defect on to Ravenna, who had such promise. Ravenna had a fire in her that burned hotter than it should, but that fire had stirred something in Varinya, too. It had melted the icy prison encasing her heart, keeping it safe, and she’d loved her daughter, beyond what was allowed.

  And now Ravenna was gone. Driven away by more than the promise of forbidden love, of that Varinya was certain. Ravenna had seen reflected in her mother’s eyes a terrible failure and had fled in horror, knowing if she stayed she might be cast out anyway.

  There was no way now to tell her that Varinya would have never allowed that to pass. Had there been no other choice, she would’ve beseeched Ravenna and confessed her own awful truth, and bade her tell the same lie. For Varinya had reigned well as High Priestess. Visions or no. Ravenna would have gone on to do the same.

  The worst agony of all was the face she had to wear that was not her own. The one who did not miss Ravenna, who had effectively and succinctly cauterized her love. Who did not agonize, night after night, over a way to bring her home, to make it all right.

  “My darling,” Adynora said. “
I’m almost grateful I can’t read your mind right now. But please do not trouble yourself with questions lacking satisfying answers. As the High Priestess, you have done your duty by Midnight Crest and the Ravenwood heritage. You have delivered us four daughters, which is fortuitous in the present condition we find ourselves. And all of this is to earn the right to our First Death. Your First Death is your life, Varinya. Your reward; perhaps the only one you will ever have. It is your right to live, to be forgotten, to be a Ravenwood of your own choosing, and not the one chosen by magic. You spend these years preparing, and I am sorry for you, that Ravenna has prolonged what should have been yours in short order. But Ryandyr will make a fine High Priestess. And when she is delivered of her first daughter, you will join me, and there’s much more we can discuss that is not suitable for a former High Priestess to share with a current one.”

  Varinya looked up. “I do look forward to that day, Mother. Where we can speak without the tethers of duty.”

  “Oh, my child. We will always have some tethers of duty. Such as the one in your heart still holding fast to Ravenna.” Adynora looked off to the side with a light smile. “Argentyn will tell you that your love should die, but we know better, don’t we? But there is no more you can do for Ravenna, Daughter. She has made her choice, and thus has forced you to make yours. If magic is kind, Ravenna is happy. You may never know, and you must be satisfied with that.”

  “I understand, Mother. I have accepted it. It is only understanding it that eludes me.”

  Adynora laughed. “Why do you think the magic bids us intermarry? It is not only to protect the potency of our blood. It is so we are not foolish enough to think our hearts worthy of guiding!”

  Varinya grinned in spite of her aching heart. “Yes, I can see the reason in that.”

  “Think no more on it,” Adynora said. She rose, clucking at the goat, who disappeared beyond the trees of ice. “Ryandyr is your future. Our future. And I look forward to the day when you can join me in First Death and we can speak of those things you would like to say to me now but cannot.”

  Varinya released a painful breath when her mother disappeared back inside The Rookery. She felt as if she’d been holding it her entire life.

  She had years ahead yet before she could ask her mother the questions she needed answers to. And had Adynora asked these same things when she at last greeted her own First Death? Was it only then that Varinya could finally question the magic that held their world together so neatly?

  If Varinya’s dangerous suspicions about the visions were true, then their whole world was a lie. All of it. If no one had seen their past, then perhaps there was no great history of the Ravenwoods. These visions were the fabric that held their delicate lives together; that predetermined that leadership pass through the women only, and never the men.

  Varinya prepared to stand and greet the remainder of her day when two bony hands clamped down on her shoulders. She sucked in a hard, inward breath.

  Argentyn’s cold lips dribbled kisses across the back of her neck, as she tried desperately not to shudder.

  Ravenna didn’t know how fortunate she was, having a brother she loved. She may have turned her nose at having him in her bed, but there was a fondness that was beyond measure of value. Alasyr would have been a fine companion for her.

  Varinya had been wed to the same brother who found his pleasure in torturing her, and once her husband, she exchanged her cries for smiles.

  She held all the power in Midnight Crest, and none of the joy.

  There was not a single person she could confide these things to.

  Not even herself.

  * * *

  Alasyr waited until his father was long gone before taking flight. The path was almost too familiar now. He knew precisely where the wind would catch under his wings and float him across the air, and where he needed to dip below the clouds to begin his descent into the world of men.

  He swooped in on the approach to Wulfsgate, nearing the vast and aptly named Wintergarden. He wished he wasn’t so fascinated with the trees that bore vibrant fruit in midwinter, or the benches and gazebos beckoning the curious to come sit a spell and marvel in these wonders.

  On the last bend, a lone figure came into view.

  The girl.

  He dropped in lower and settled upon the branch of a great, sprawling oak.

  Watching.

  8

  Rush Rider

  Corin Quinlanden spread his hands across the splintered cedar. He appeared to be greeting the world at the start of his day, as he did on more ordinary mornings, but this was not an ordinary morning. He had one eye on the rising sun, and the other on the insidious figure of the sorcerer Mortain.

  Mortain went out to address the Medvedev each morning—he had his routines, too—but there was no peace in such a gesture. He raised his hands above his head and began whatever it was he did to renew his magic’s hold. Because he did this every day, Corin had deduced that it was a necessary thing to maintain the unnatural control he had over the Saleen soldiers. He wondered how long it would hold without this daily ritual. If Mortain were to become detained in some way.

  Mads Waters watched the sorcerer with one hand upon his sword, ready to slice it through the flesh of anyone who dared disrupt. With him, a hundred other guards, redirected to protection of the sorcerer for this short morning spell. A hundred guards not manning the keep of Arboriana.

  “And? Has he started?” Yesenia asked from the lounger.

  Corin turned. “Just now.”

  “Good. A half tick, then. Where is your brother’s wife, anyway?”

  “I’m here,” Maeryn replied, appearing as she often did, as if unfurling from some nearby shadow.

  “Guardian’s cock,” Yesenia hissed with an exhale. “Were you there all along?”

  “No,” Maeryn said. “Yes. Somewhat.”

  “Somewhat? What kind of answer is that? You either were, or you were not.”

  “My apologies, Lady Yesenia.”

  Maeryn pretended to cow in contrition. Corin knew better. There was nothing contrite or cowing about Maeryn Blackwood, peculiar though she was. But she and Yesenia had never gotten on. At first, he tried to understand the odd and sometimes blistering tension between them, but like many nuances of women, it fell beyond his comprehension.

  “Lady Yesenia.” Yesenia frowned, drawing a tight line with her lips. “You are the predominant lady of this house, Lady Maeryn. I ask only that you consider not sneaking around and planting yourself in dark corners unannounced. And now we have wasted precious seconds dealing with it.” She turned her attention to her husband. “Tell her what you know, and quick.”

  Corin resisted the urge to return to his balcony to keep an eye on Mortain. It was only during these brief morning rituals that the three dared be in one room together, alone. Only in these few minutes where Mads’ eye was on the Medvedev and not the three prominent nobles of Whitechurch. Even Corin’s own chambers with Yesenia were no longer private at most hours. Mortain stashed his guards everywhere. In every room, closet, corner. And that was only the keep. Corin hadn’t been allowed into the city to witness the restrictions imposed upon the citizens, but he’d heard the main gates were under strict lockdown, allowing none in or out without special authority. Only those by air, the ravens, could enter and leave, and he had no doubt every single one was intercepted before final delivery.

  Their gaolers didn’t dare throw the lords and ladies of the Whitechurch into a prison, but they were prisoners nonetheless. Even Aiden, in all his cruelty, had never behaved this way toward his people. Corin didn’t know if the orders came from his brother, or if Mads and Mortain had taken these measures on their own authority. They couldn’t know because Aiden had gone silent from Duncarrow. Their last news of him had been the reports of his ship at port upon arrival to the island of the king.

  “We must be cautious with our loyalties here,” Corin began. “For we may be asking a man to give up his head if caught de
livering truths to us.”

  “But you have heard? From Aiden?” Maeryn asked. She watched him in the most curious way. It made him feel as if he was standing before her in the nude.

  “Not from Aiden,” Corin replied. “But I have heard whispers repeated back to me. And at last I understand better why it seems my brother has fallen into Beyond.”

  “And? Is he dead?” Maeryn asked, stopping just short of licking her lips.

  “I fear not,” Corin replied. “But it would be more true to say no one knows whether he lives or dies, and that is the problem.”

  “The problem?” Maeryn repeated.

  “Mads and Mortain have sent raven after raven to Duncarrow. None have been returned. Not from Aiden, and none from the king. Utter silence. And if others knew this, it would diminish the hold they have over both Reaches. They’re doing all they can to keep this truth silenced.”

  Maeryn slinked against a tall chair across the room, sliding slowly down. “He’s done it then.”

  “Done what?” Yesenia asked. Her dark hair flowed in soft waves over the back of the chaise. Corin swallowed a lump back in his throat. The Epoch of the Accordant had chosen his wife for him, but he’d chosen her every day since. Twenty years had passed and she was ever more a blessing to him each day. Even now, with the guards running the Reach, and their futures far from certain. When they no longer had the power to protect each other.

  “He’s killed my sister!” Maeryn practically shouted. “He isn’t ready for the kingdom to know is all. Eoghan will help him cover it, or defend it, branding her a traitor.”