Fae King's Vengeance (Court of Bones and Ash Book 4)

by Layla Harper

  We follow Aelinor out the glass doors, shielding our eyes from the bright light cutting across the courtyard. We descend the stairs, and by the time I push through to the last tread, the pain is so bad the moldy bread is two seconds from a dramatic comeback.

  Aelinor’s mercenaries rise and move away from their campsites, forming lines along the path we travel. I stick close to Ilearis, avoiding the ogling eyeballs and catcalls, focusing on the scarred ruins of the castle eclipsing the suns. And attached to the left tower is another cage.

  Great.

  Just great.

  We come to a stop.

  Aelinor spins around and raises her arms over her head theatrically. “Behold the mighty fortress of Azgagh. The former home of Myrkur, protector of Alfhemir.” She strides toward me, and for some reason, I’m slow to react. Until her hand shoots into my hair, grabbing a fistful while her free hand thrusts forward, dagger in her hand.

  I gasp and jerk away, fighting her hold. In the next breath, I’m on the ground, a clump of black in her grip.

  She cut my hair?

  What the hell?

  Aelinor’s smile is wicked, and my stomach sours. Madness scrolls in the depths of her gaze.

  She wants my hair? No problem. She can take all she wants. Hair can grow back. An ear or an eye, not so much.

  “My queen,” the elf beside her prompts.

  Aelinor snaps her head up, silver-blond hair flying in an arc behind her. She hands the male my hair.

  “What is she doing?”

  Ilearis frowns and shrugs.

  Clasping my arm with enough force to rip it from the socket, the demon lifts me to my feet. He directs us to the cage, and once we’re inside, he hoists us up, though not too high this time. We’re barely out of reach.

  I have a really bad feeling about this.

  My skin stings, and it’s not from the heat sure to fry our brains. No, it’s magic. Strong and powerful magic. “What is that?”

  “A spell. It counters a strong ward, but there is resistance. Can you not feel it?”

  “I feel something. I can’t distinguish what, though.”

  Ilearis grips the bars, her face pressing between the grids. “She is using your hair in a spell meant to break the blood ward.”

  “Which makes absolutely no sense,” I whisper. “She’s totally off her rocker. Your mother said only the queen’s blood could break through.” But just in case, I cross my fingers because what lies beyond that door makes Saruman of Lord of the Rings fame look like a neophyte.

  The mage holds the book Aelinor reads from. She slices her palm and then squeezes her fist, throwing blood at the door like a Catholic blessing. She chants words I can’t decipher, her hair rising around her shoulders. With each syllable dropping from her tongue, the magic thickens, her voice vibrating with power fanning out into the crowd.

  My hair lands at the base of the door like an offering, strands lifting off the ground, floating, until poof. It’s gone. A trail of white smoke in its place.

  Magda drags a protesting goblin up the stairs. He’s dressed in rags. Maybe one of the prisoners in the other cage? The vampire pushes him to the door.

  “Open it,” Aelinor commands.

  The male shakes his head. “No. I will not.”

  “Open. The. Door.” The compulsion in the words sends gooseflesh skating up my arms. “I am loath to execute your family,” she pleads. “If you disobey, you leave me no choice.”

  The male goes utterly still.

  “Did you not think I would read your thoughts when I took your life force? Memories of your lovely bride on your mating day? Oh, and the babe. So precious.”

  The male doesn’t look back. Not when an anguished sob cuts through the crowd. He takes a step forward, followed by another, until he’s within arm’s reach of the door. His back goes rigid, and his gnarled fingers curl into his palm.

  Don’t do it.

  But my words are empty. If it were me in his place, if it were Rogar and my child she threatened, I’d be at the door, resigned to my fate.

  My eyes tear when he reaches for the handle.

  There’s a hush from the crowd.

  I hold my breath, my pulse pounding in my ears. I don’t know what’s about to happen, but I sense the totality of it. The devastation to come.

  His fingers grip the metal. A loud moan breaks from his throat. His shoulders shake, tremors rolling down to his arms, hips, and legs like a snake coiling around his body. The black mangy hair on his head falls to the ground like snow, exposing the green skin on his scalp that cracks. Black lines appear over his scalp, and like shattered glass, they shear, spreading across his body until the male crumbles into pieces on the ground. Until all that remains is a pile of dust.

  “No.” My hand snaps to my mouth. “No,” I breathe through the fingers clamped over my lips. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. No. No. No.

  We are so screwed.

  Aelinor angles her head. Her gaze travels up to the cage, and I swear the look in her eyes says “You’re next, human.”

  I lurch to the side and vomit through the bars.

  6

  Rogar

  Fifty paces from the infirmary, the arguing reaches our ears.

  “Your age is irrelevant. Thirty years or three thousand, it matters not. You are not to rise from this bed.”

  The healer.

  Silent thunder follows.

  Then…

  “Suns above. Get me the king. Now.”

  Rowena.

  Had the voice not been so weak, there would have been fire in her words.

  “Formidable indeed,” Frinhol says with a barely concealed smile.

  I race to the infirmary. The goblin matches my pace step for step. Moments later, we burst through the entrance.

  Rowena throws me an annoyed look. “I waste more and more of my immortal life waiting for you, orc.”

  “I am happy to see you too, norn.” I stride across the way and dip my head to the old healer standing by her cot as I pass.

  Balancing her weight on one elbow, Rowena struggles to sit.

  “Be still." I lower myself into the chair beside her and take her hand. “You are worrying Frinhol’s healer with your antics.” I smile over her head and wink at the old female, who turns away with a huff. Several of the cots are vacant. Only the critically wounded remain under her watchful care.

  “I have had enough of this bed. We must bring—” Rowena’s gaze swings to the goblin. “What is he doing here?”

  “Frinhol is an ally. He has offered his resources.”

  She pulls her hand from mine. “I have firsthand experience with the resources his so-called allies wield.”

  The goblin’s ears flatten against his head. “And when I find the traitor who hurt you, I will kill her.”

  Ignoring Frinhol, Rowena reclines on the thin mattress. “The queen?”

  “It was as you foresaw. A blanket of darkness covers the entire perimeter. Night realm elves patrol the fortress.”

  Her eyes trail to the unconscious general beside me. “I had hoped…” She lifts a pale hand to her forehead and squeezes her eyes shut. “How long has it been?”

  “A little over a day.”

  “Too long.” She begins to move.

  “Norn,” I warn.

  Her chest inflates. “We did everything in our power to fight her.” She grinds her fingers into the center of her breastbone. “She was too strong. Do you understand?”

  I do, more than she will ever know.

  “A great void exists. One I brought upon myself.” Her words are softly spoken, and I am not sure if she speaks to me or to herself. A tear slides from the edge of her eye. “Of all the runes I allowed for Ilearis’s protection, I refused a communication link.” Her laugh is bitter. “I feared my enemies would use the link to hurt my child.” She sighs. “How I bemoan my selfishness. How afraid she must be.”

  My own silent bond aches in my chest. “She is not alone. Kyra is fierce. My mate will f
ight for your daughter as if she were her own.”

  “They cannot fight what your cousin becomes with every day that passes. I am not sure any of us can.” Rowena draws in a breath, and when her eyes stray to Frinhol, her lips firm.

  I can understand her mistrust. I wrestle with my own. “Yesterday you spoke of a ceasg.”

  Her eyes go wide, and then her magic flares around us, weak but viable. “Do not speak, orc. Do not speak those words. Not here. Not when sound carries beyond these walls.”

  Why the sudden vigilance when yesterday there was none? “You have no memory of our conversation, do you?”

  Rowena touches her temple. “No. I… I do not.”

  Had I imagined her directive? I exchange a look with Frinhol.

  He shrugs, looking as confused as I feel. “A vision?”

  Refusing to look at the goblin, Rowena keeps her attention on me. “What did I say?”

  “You made mention of a certain creature several times.” And although portions of the night are a blur, I am sure of what I heard. “You told me to take, but what, I do not know.”

  Her expression becomes pensive. “Visions have come to me in my sleep. It is rare but not unheard of.” Grimacing, she scans the infirmary. “My magic wanes. I cannot shield us much longer. We cannot speak of this here.”

  “My quarters are warded.” Frinhol crosses his arms. “You are welcome to it.”

  “Fine.” Still avoiding the goblin, she swings her legs over the side of the cot. “It will do for lack of a better option.”

  The healer comes running. “And what do you think you are doing? She is not well enough to stand, never mind depart.”

  Rowena grabs my arm for leverage, sets her feet on the ground, and opens her mouth.

  I brace myself for the tongue-lashing the healer is about to receive, but before she can retort, Frinhol waves a hand at the graying female. “I take full responsibility for her care, Talti.”

  “Very well.” Clearly unhappy with her commander, the healer retreats and then hesitates. When her eyes land on me, my hackles rise. “King Rogar. I would have a word with you before you leave.”

  “Now is not the time.”

  “If Talti asks to speak with you, it is important. Go.” Frinhol gestures to Rowena. “I will bring your norn to my quarters and await you there.”

  “You will do no such thing.” Rowena’s fingers dig into my arm. “I can walk.”

  I seriously doubt that.

  “I am sure you can,” Frinhol says, ever the diplomat. “My apologies, King Rogar.”

  “For?”

  “This.” He grins and, without warning, scoops an unsuspecting Rowena into his arms.

  The norn yelps, her fingernails still attached to my flesh. “Put me down, goblin. I have been blessed with two feet—”

  “I see that.” Frinhol makes a show of checking out her wriggling limbs. “Fine-looking feet, I might add.”

  She sputters, a cacophony of unfamiliar sounds emitting from her mouth. But no words.

  Frinhol gestures in my direction. “Release the king, norn. He will have need of that arm to fight the wizard.”

  Her mouth widens, and still no words form, but at least she has disengaged her claws from my flesh.

  “We will await your arrival, King Rogar.” Frinhol winks and carries a stunned and speechless Rowena swiftly out of the tent before she comes to her senses.

  No interest, my arse. “Bloody goblin.”

  “It is not like Frinhol to take a liking to a female.”

  I arch a brow. “Oh no?”

  “He lost his bride many years ago. He is an honest male. He will make the norn a fine mate.”

  If she does not kill him first.

  “You wished to speak to me?”

  “Come.” The healer sets off across the infirmary, waving for me to follow. She stops at two tables set parallel to one another like a workstation. Herbs and various medicines are spread across the surface. She busies herself straightening several piles, putting aside herbs, a ceremonial pipe, and several stone jars.

  “Sit.” She points to the only chair set between the two tables. When I do not move, she pats the cushion. “I do not bite, Lord King.”

  I cross my arms. “What is this about?”

  “Your pain.”

  “You are mistaken. My wounds have since healed.”

  “Are you sure?” She angles her head, her yellow eyes pinning me to the floor. Her gaze narrows, tunneling through layers of skin and muscle to reach the dark places hidden beneath flesh and bone.

  “Come now, Lord King, you know what I speak of.” She reaches up and presses her small palm to my heart.

  Standing at seven feet tall, I tower over this tiny female, yet the force of her touch nearly bowls me over.

  “Many hurts lie hidden. Your wounds are deep-seated, jagged, and barbed.” She smiles, her sharp teeth flashing against pale green lips. “Bonds are both a blessing and a curse. Fate does not always take what we desire into consideration, now does it? Sit. Sit,” she prods.

  And because my knees refuse to straighten, I do.

  I am met with silence when I enter Frinhol’s tent. Rowena is perched upon one of his cushioned chairs, the male sitting opposite her, face grim.

  They have not murdered one another.

  This is good news.

  “There you are,” she says without taking her eyes off the goblin.

  Closing the flap, I stroll to the far end of the tent to the seating area I do not recall seeing last night. “Have you eaten, norn?”

  Frinhol points to the untouched tray. “She has refused what I have offered.”

  I grab a few pieces of cheese and bite into a slice of bread.

  A wrinkle forms between her dark eyes. “You seem troubled, orc.”

  “Worry not about me.” I shove the healer’s words aside and take a seat beside Frinhol. “The ceasg?”

  “Is real,” she says. “If you can locate and capture her, she will grant you three wishes.”

  “She can bestow any request?” Is my luck changing? “Can she remove Kyra’s slave mark? Or open a portal?”

  Grimacing, Rowena shifts in her chair. “There are exceptions to all magic. I do not think she can grant life or love, or move time. But the removal of a spell? The granting of a charm? Yes, I believe her capable.”

  Frinhol’s claws scrape against the beard at his chin. “If this is true, you could procure your charms and spells instantly.”

  Exactly.

  Tempering my hope, I finish the bread. “Tell me what you know of her.”

  Rowena takes a breath, the sound too raspy for my liking.

  “You should be abed,” Frinhol tells her.

  She glances at the rumpled sheets on the cot behind her. “I am fine.”

  “You are not, but I will not argue further.” Frinhol turns to me. “Ask what you will of her, but do so quickly. My healer will have my ears if I return her in worse condition than when we left.”

  Rowena snorts.

  “You think I lie?” He points to a nicked section of his left ear, but the sly grin negates the charge.

  She raises slender hands to her temples and rubs. “Must he be here?”

  Frinhol laughs.

  “The ceasg, norn,” I prod, getting us back on track. “Tell me what you know so I can return you to Talti’s capable hands.” And after my conversation with the healer, I have no doubts about the female’s abilities.

  “If you seek the creature, I am coming with—”

  “No. Not in your condition. Rowena, you know I am right. I need you alive to defeat Aelinor and reclaim our kin.” I polish off the last of the cheese.

  Pursing her lips, she watches me dust crumbs from my lap. “Very well, orc. I will defer to your judgment this once.” Her gaze drifts to the tent’s entrance and runs along the walls before returning to her hands. “There are many rumors associated with the ceasg. Some tales tell of fae who received great blessings in exchange for
their firstborn. Others tell of a creature who casts her lure, drowning unsuspecting males while nourishing her body on the flesh of those she cannot entrance.”

  “Lovely,” Frinhol opines.

  “She is said to be many things. Vengeful. Kind. Mournful. I know not which are true except she is born of the sea, and although she lives on land, she must maintain some ties to the water, either by way of a river or a bay.”

  Frinhol’s ears perk. “A river?”

  “Did you not say the hag lives along the River of Tears?” I ask.

  “I did. And interestingly enough, the river opens to the Sea of Storms, beyond the mountain range.” Completely focused on a spot near my boot, Frinhol plays with a silver hoop at his ear. “You think the hag and this ceasg might be one and the same?”

  “An oath to a ceasg would explain Odra’s reaction.”

  “It would.’ Frinhol’s gaze hardens. “Of course, there is a way to find out for sure.”

  He stands.

  “Wait,” Rowena calls. “Before you barge off and get yourselves ensorcelled, there is more.”

  The goblin’s mouth widens into a roguish grin. He tilts his head at me. “She is concerned for my well-being.”

  Rowena’s face reddens, and for a moment I think the poor norn may actually choke on her own saliva.

  “Sit down, goblin, or the ceasg will be the least of your troubles.” I squeeze the bridge of my nose to keep from laughing at the murderous scowl on Rowena’s face. “What dangers have you not expounded, norn? Sharp teeth? Claws?”

  “Goblins with heads too big for their small bodies?” Shaking her head, she adjusts the folds of the long skirt covering her legs. “To grant your wishes, she must be captured and controlled.”

  “What exactly does that mean?” Do I bind the creature and compel her? “Tell me I do not need a spell of compulsion. Such would defeat the purpose of this mission.”

  “No, but if you could, your odds would be greatly improved. Legends note the existence of her skin. Find it, and you control the ceasg.”

  “What—”

  She holds up a hand. “Others claim the ceasg hides her soul somewhere in her territory.”

  I have heard of creatures who hide their hearts to protect their powers from being stolen, but a soul?