A River of Royal Blood

by Amanda Joy

  She’d sat up then and approached the table where our father worked, bent over a manuscript bound in twine. Cast us an illusion, Father.

  He pushed back the pages and waited, an eyebrow arched. Isadore rolled her eyes, but laid her cheek on his shoulder and asked again, more politely. Please, Papa.

  Very well, he said, brows drawn down in mock seriousness. What do you propose? A ball at the Palace? A hunt for a desert krakai? A menagerie floating on the sea?

  But even as he spoke, the illusion had already shimmered around us. Books floated off the shelves, rustling like a flock of birds as they took to the air. Their spines cracked open and words marched right off their pages in ribbons of black ink. We raced around the room trying to catch the words before they drifted away.

  Falun’s hand on my shoulder drew me back to the present. I was sprawled out just as Isa had been in the memory, my eyes wet. When I closed them, I could still see words woven through the air, and Isadore climbing up shelves to capture them.

  “Are you well, Eva?” Falun asked, tugging at the braid hanging over his shoulder.

  Captain Anali and the rest of the guards were watching me, their expressions wary. My face warmed as Falun helped me to my feet. “I’m fine.”

  “Perhaps we should go for a walk while we wait for your friend to return?”

  “Yes.” I didn’t want to be stuck in there with my memories. I looked to Anali and the hourglass. More than half its red sand had fallen to the bottom. “We’ll be back before the hour is up. I know this place well.”

  “Very well,” Anali agreed, though her eyes were concerned. “Any longer and I’ll assume I need to mount a search.”

  Falun and I wandered back to the main chamber of the library and climbed the steps to the upper mezzanine. Here it seemed the rows of shelves went on forever, and silence pressed in on all sides. Unlike the flawless pink marble below, the black-and-white tiles on the floor were scuffed and in need of repair, several having cracked beneath the weight of the shelves.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened?” Falun asked as we roamed the stacks. He kept a hand on the pommel of his sword, completely out of place among the dusty shelves.

  “We used to come here all the time with my father when Isa had her lessons.” I shrugged.

  “Ah,” Falun said. “Bad memories, then?”

  “Not exactly.” The memories were warm and golden, but the present made every remembrance bitter. “I’m still not used to being in Ternain. Wherever I go, I remember when everything was . . . less complicated.”

  “Yesterday at Court my mother asked me to come home,” Falun said, his jaw tightening. “She knows that I cannot. Your nameday is barely seven weeks away. After last night, I can’t risk being gone.”

  Falun’s mother, Lady Jessypha, was the head of House Malfar. The family split their time between the capital and their large estates just a two-day ride south. Most of their wealth came from the fruit orchards on their land, and a roving herd of sheep, which produced the best wool in Akhimar.

  “I’m sure the Captain can spare you for a week or two,” I said. Though Mira and Anali as my only company for that long was a tiresome possibility, Falun had younger twin brothers and an elder sister he’d seen only once since returning to Ternain with me. He ought to see them before it became even more dangerous to be around me. I envied those uncomplicated relationships—his fierce protectiveness of the twins, his equal amounts of admiration and exasperation for his sister, Erina. It was a reminder of just how different our worlds were. Even if I lived to have children, my daughters could never have such closeness, at least not for long.

  “When I was young, it seemed that my father was always away, but last time I went home, I saw him everywhere. Singing to the trees, herding sheep he called by name, dancing with my mother at the hearth.” We stopped at the end of the aisle. Falun stared at the floor, frowning slightly.

  A little more than three years ago, just months after I moved to Asrodei, Falun’s father had been killed in a skirmish with raiders near the Dracolan border. When his body was recovered, I rode south with my father for General Malfar’s burial. The following month, Lady Jessypha sent Falun north to begin his training at Asrodei, to follow his father’s path in the Queen’s Army.

  “I’m sorry, Fal.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t be. Erina says that having only a few memories makes them burn even brighter. And I will see them in a few more turns of the moon. They’ll be coming to your nameday ball.”

  Yes, though there would be no celebration if I could not survive these next months.

  We lapsed into silence and turned back toward the room where Anali and the guards waited. I’d intended to spend the rest of the day at the Temple, but now I hoped to take Sarou’s recommendations and leave quickly. Thinking of the young Auguri again, I reached for the lapis charm on my wrist. Sarou spent all her time here. She wouldn’t tell me of the omens, but maybe I could discern something of her magick by sniffing it out. The library must have reeked of Auguri magick and the scents our powers carried often hinted at their nature.

  I inhaled, but Falun’s was the only magick I sensed—sweet cherry wine, sour oranges, and mint. Glamour always smelled of wine or liquor. I tried again and caught a faint earthy musk. I couldn’t explain exactly how I knew it wasn’t Sarou, except that it just didn’t feel like her. Something about the scent gave me pause and prickled the back of my neck. I drew in a deeper breath this time.

  We turned a corner and the scent vanished. I circled back until it grew stronger and was laced with the iron tang of blood. I made to continue forward, but Falun stepped in front of me. “What are you doing? Anali will worry.”

  I held up the pendant. Recognition settled over his face. He’d seen me use it before in Asrodei, though he was skeptical then. Magick has no aroma, he’d said, but had eaten those words when I guessed the magick of the Fort’s soldiers as we walked its halls.

  “Can’t you smell that?” But of course he couldn’t. The fey had sharper senses than humans, but they couldn’t smell magick. “It’s almost like . . .” I trailed off, trying to place it. “It smells of fear.”

  Falun held up a hand, cheeks red with frustration. “Just to confirm, the magick reeks of fear and you want to follow it?”

  In answer, I took his hand and we proceeded forward on a winding path through the stacks until we came to a plain wooden door. The scent was so strong here it made my teeth ache.

  Falun pressed his ear the door, brow wrinkling. “There is someone inside.”

  We entered the room. Copper lamps, like miniature suns, bathed the small room in pinpricks of warm light, casting patterns in shadows on the walls. Bookshelves fitted with rolling ladders stretched to the ceiling. A marble-topped table took up most of the space, filled with a strange assortment of items. There was an hourglass turned on its side, a hunk of uncut quartz, three golden eagle feathers, a potted fern—though how it could grow in this sunless, still room was beyond me—and an aged sword. The hilt was dented and spotted with rust; the leather on the scabbard looked as if it had been left to age in the sun for a century. All it would’ve taken was a strong wind to blow it to dust. A set of worn saddlebags had been shoved haphazardly beneath the table.

  Other than that, the room was empty.

  I looked to Falun, a question on my lips, but he stepped in front of me and pointed across the room. A figure clothed in midnight stepped out from a shadow beside one of the rolling ladders. My skin prickled as I caught the scent of that musky, wild magick again.

  The figure looked up, his grin sly enough to make me sweat. “How lovely it is to have . . . visitors.”

  CHAPTER 7

  I OPENED MY mouth, but no words came to mind. I couldn’t figure out how to stop staring.

  He was fey and didn’t look a year over twenty-five. His hair was as blond as Falun’s was red
—more the idea of blondness than a single shade. White, honey, pure gold, and ash all blended into a sheet hanging to mid-thigh, framing his body like an animal pelt. Sun to Falun’s moon, the man’s warm skin shone with flecks of copper and gold. His bone structure held the same sharpness I had come to expect in any of the fey, but was cast more finely than most. There was elegance in the dark sweep of his eyebrows, seduction in the upturned corners of his lips, danger in the dark hollows of his cheeks.

  He was clad all in black, with tight leather breeches tucked into soft boots, and a knee-length slim-cut coat of the same fabric, with gold embroidery along its lapel. The collar of his undershirt hung open, revealing a glimpse of toned golden skin. A tuft of pale hair curled on his chest. More than ten rings were worn on each of his hands, some made from metal and precious stones, but most were bone jewelry.

  Just like Raina.

  He smiled, displaying bright white teeth. His canines were long and sharp, giving him a wolfish appearance. I resisted the urges both to lean backward and to inch forward.

  More than attractive—the man was arresting.

  He glided toward us, fingers skimming over the edge of a bookshelf, and stopped at the table. His walk was that of a leopard, all deadly grace and indolence.

  Of course, his magick smelled of fear. This was a man who knew how to stoke terror.

  “Did the little Auguri send you here?” His gaze roved over Falun before settling on me.

  Was he another library oddity? Like Sarou, his apparent age didn’t match his bearing, but he couldn’t have been trapped within the halls of this place for very long. That golden skin knew the sun. I lifted my chin. “No, why would Sarou have a reason to send me here?”

  “Who can know the motivations of those who commune with futures and fates?” The man shrugged, but his eyes were keen. “How did you come to this room, then?”

  As if his words were a spell, my answer was out of my mouth before I could consider their wisdom. “I followed the scent of your magick.”

  The man’s eyes widened a fraction before he leaned back, perched on the edge of the table with his jaw balanced on his palm. “How terribly interesting of you. Will you tell me your name?”

  Falun gripped my hand and the slight twinge of pain chased away my desire to respond. “If you think I will let you ensorcell her mind, old one, you are mistaken.” Falun’s voice crackled with quiet anger.

  “I’m sure you can tell that I have laid no magick upon her. The girl only responds to my . . . natural charm,” the man drawled. “You’ll remember you are the ones who came to my door. I do not mean you any harm.”

  I looked to Falun, who nodded, his expression grim. The man was telling the truth, but it was not reassuring to know he’d had such an effect on me without magick. “Who are you?”

  He arched a pale eyebrow. “Why don’t you guess?”

  Old one, Falun had called him.

  I had a suspicion. It was barely within the realm of possibility. And yet when Falun and I exchanged glances, I was sure we were thinking the same name. My thoughts raced, seeking any other explanation. “If you want a guess, give me a clue.”

  “Very well.” The blond fey grinned.

  A warm wind tore through the room, tossing books from their shelves. His skin glowed like he’d swallowed a spoonful of the sun as he tossed back his head and howled. Beside me Falun stiffened, choking on a gasp.

  The wind smelled of blood, old and fresh, and carried the sound of wolves, paws pounding on a forest floor, biting at the ankles of their prey. Most profoundly, it held terror. I tried to tell him to end it—my head ached at the pressure of his magick—but suddenly apparitions of massive wolves appeared around the table. A silvery mountain wolf with a scarred maw and pale gray eyes laid her nose against my arm. I rubbed her head, fingers combing through the thick fur behind her ears, and a contented growl vibrated in her throat. Across the room, another wolf, this one so black it ate up the light, lifted its head and howled. All the rest echoed his song.

  I sang slowly, “Baccha, Baccha, Lord of the Hunt, wielder of death, kills when he must.”

  “Baccha, Baccha, Hound of Death, smiles as he severs your head from your neck,” Falun said, finishing the tune.

  A shudder ran through me. An old song for an old legend, an old myth. It truly was him. But how could it be? All of the Godlings—ancient fey and khimaer whose magick was so powerful that they lived for several centuries—were long dead. Wild magick like his had died out after the Great War.

  Back when khimaer Queens ruled, Lord Baccha had led a group of fey and khimaer mercenary magick-workers who called themselves the Wild Hunt. Legend said they’d roamed Akhimar, killing, carousing, and committing a number of atrocities until their leader was tamed by the Queen and made to do her bidding. The story said she had yoked his will to hers with his blood. After, he and the Wild Hunt became enforcers of the Queen’s laws, hunting criminals across the realm and often executing them.

  Baccha snapped his fingers again, and the wolves, as well as the nimbus of light surrounding him, disappeared. He sank into the nearest chair and propped booted feet up on the table. “Finally. It’s been exhausting having to introduce myself. Can you imagine it? ‘I am Eva Killeen. You know the one—the Princess fated to kill or be killed, the one with lovely, fearsome magick’? Gods, how tedious.”

  I shifted uncomfortably. “You could have indicated that you’d recognized me, Lord Hunter.”

  “And you, my little Huntress, might’ve done the same.” He gestured for us to join him.

  “How do you know who I am?” I asked, sliding into a chair beside Falun.

  “I heard about you almost as soon as I returned to the capital. You match the descriptions of the younger Princess, and there is a soldier by your side. I’m glad to find those most unfortunate rumors are untrue.”

  I frowned, thinking I had misheard him. “What?”

  He cocked his head, confused. “You must realize that your ability to sense power that way is a gift of blood magick. As they say, all magick lies in the blood. I’ve only known one other who could do the same.”

  I flushed as I considered his words. I’d heard that adage during one of my few lessons with the Sorceryn but had never been sure how exactly it connected to my magick.

  Raina’s name floated unspoken between us, dangling like bait. The other he spoke of must have been her. I couldn’t remember any of the tales written about the Hunter that involved the First, but then, legends and history were slippery things. Baccha’s most popular ballads all took place before the Great War, but he’d lived through her reign. The bone jewels around his neck looked just like Raina’s, so they must have been connected. I was sure of it, but I wasn’t going to take the bait until I was sure of him.

  He could be another fey with strong glamour masquerading as the Hunter. That made more sense than finding him holed up in the Temple.

  I took a deep breath. “There is a line in every song I’ve heard about you. They add it even if the song isn’t written in Khimaeran. Al’aedin colish coleen, al codish volduva.”

  “‘The world is wild with untamed things,’” Baccha translated, his eyes twinkling with pleasure.

  “I’ve heard tales that the khimaer Queen who tamed you left her mark upon your skin.”

  He grimaced. “Must I prove myself to you once more? And what of you? Will you show me your magick to prove yourself?”

  I held up a hand. “What more proof do I need with this on my skin?”

  The Hunter made a great show of extending his wrist. He had a sinuous faint white scar. I shivered and asked the question that had stuck fast in my mind since he appeared. “Did you know Queen Raina? I’ve never known a fey to work marrow magick, but your jewelry looks just like the necklace she wears in her portraits.”

  He sighed. “Yes, I knew her. I wasn’t born with blood or
marrow magick, but I learned it from Raina.”

  I fought to smother the desperate edge in my voice. “Will you teach me, then? By your words, I know you must have heard that I cannot use magick. The Sorceryn do not know enough of the past to instruct me.”

  “I sympathize with your difficulty, but I’ve no time to become embroiled in a contest of Rival Heirs. I am only passing through Ternain on my way to the Isles.”

  “Why aren’t you on a boat now, then? Why hide in the library?” I remembered the saddlebags under the table. “Are you sleeping here?”

  “That is my concern,” Baccha said. There was danger in his voice now, a warning.

  I did not heed it. My father had searched for years for someone to instruct me in the ways of marrow and blood magick. Lord Baccha was my only chance at commanding my powers. The good fortune that had carried me to this room would not strike again.

  I refused to accept anything less than his acceptance.

  “Of course it is, Hunter. I don’t want to intrude on your affairs, but you should consider that my mother would not find such an answer satisfactory . . . None of the stories speak of releasing you from your service. If she hears of your return, she may ask you to resume your duties to the crown.” Beneath his tan, Baccha paled. “Unless I convince her that your time is better spent elsewhere.”

  “You offer . . . protection from the Queen’s attention?”

  “I’m sure my mother will agree that teaching me is a duty worthy of someone such as you, Lord Hunter.” I spoke in my Court voice, all its sharpness hidden beneath layers of gossamer and charm. All the while my heart beat at triple its normal pace. “All that I ask is that you extend your visit two short months. On my nameday at the end of high summer, you’ll be free to leave Ternain.”

  “I could be persuaded to stay longer than I anticipated, but before we finalize this plan of yours, Princess, you should know that I can only teach you in the manner that I was taught. We must achieve coalescence and combine our magick.”